The Trouble with Double Agents
by wolfish
Summary: COMPLETE: "Forget everything you ever knew about her, Vaughn; it was all a game, a ploy. Sydney Bristow is the enemy now." What do you do when you're in love with the enemy? AU Post-ADT
1. Love and Hate

Title: The Trouble with Double Agents  
  
Author: wolfish (seriously, don't ask)  
  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and the monkeys at ABC. Do not assume I own any of it...unless you want to.  
  
Time: A few months after 'A Dark Turn'  
  
A/N: Please be kind and (no! not rewind) review! Reviews verify my existence and make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Pretty, pretty pweeease?  
  
Chapter One  
Love and Hate  
  
The trouble with double agents is that they have flexible morals. It's a vital quality that keeps them sane after all the lies, but that same ability can turn on the hand that holds them. They've already switched sides once...so what's stopping them from doing it again?   
  
In retrospection, all the signs were there; he should have seen it coming, but at the time he had been too preoccupied to look for them. That's what hindsight is for.  
  
He woke up that morning the closest to heaven he will ever get: in Sydney Bristow's bed. He became aware of the tantalizing feeling of someone planting kisses down his chest, and his eyes fluttered open.  
  
"Morning," he rasped, maneuvering slightly so he could see the crown of her head hovering scarce inches above his skin.  
  
"Morning," she answered, and he got a flash of her face from behind the curtain of her hair as she leaned in to brush her cool lips across his breastbone.  
  
In response, he merely raised his eyebrows at her, and when she caught the gesture, she stopped in her pursuit to copy it, three delicate lines forming in the center of her forehead in an imitation of his own. "What?"  
  
The edges of his mouth curved up in that irresistible way they always did when she was around, "You know I hate it when you start without me."  
  
With a flashing grin, she braced a hand on either side of him and pulled herself up along his upper body, "And you know I hate it when--"  
  
The alarm cut through whatever she was going to say, filling the air with its frustratingly insistent beeping, and she collapsed on top of him with a groan, the mood ruined. "Five more minutes."  
  
"No," he asserted firmly, as he felt around blindly for the button that would shut the alarm off. "We have to get up. We have a flight to catch, remember?"  
  
She reluctantly levered herself into a sitting position, and he began to wiggle out from under the rest of her, but she moved quickly and pinned him before he got far, her fingers cutting into the flesh of his arms as she pushed him back into the sheets.   
  
"Wait," she breathed near his ear. "I have something to say first."  
  
He repressed his natural instinct to fight when trapped, relaxing his muscles forcibly and plastering a fake smile across his face. "Can it wait until after my shower?"  
  
"No." She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling him and setting his nerves on fire.  
  
"Syd, if this is about--" he began, realizing by the tone of her voice that he wasn't going to escape a serious conversation.  
  
"It isn't." She placed a gentle hand on each side of his face and her eyes roved across his features like she was searching for something. "I love you, Michael Vaughn."  
  
That should have been his red flag; he should have known at that exact moment that something was changing--fast. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they never voiced their feelings. Life was dangerous enough already, especially since they had chosen to spend it together, and somehow saying those words would bring doom crashing instantly down on them.  
  
But all he registered was the fact that he couldn't leave her hanging by herself like that, with her emotions naked in her eyes. If she was going to take this uncertain step, he wasn't going to let her take it alone.  
  
"I love you, Sydney Bristow."  
  
"Good," she said more brightly, bouncing up and off the bed. She grabbed his wrist and tugged him along after her. "C'mon, lazy. I need someone to wash my back."  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
He had a right to his worries, he consoled his conscience as he watched Weiss shy away from him after he snapped at him for maybe the fourth or fifth time since they had arrived in Mexico City. He had spent months of sleepless nights, working through numerous contacts to finally pull this project together, and the mission had to go off without a hitch; since the investigation on him had blown over, everything he did had been under scrutiny and any failure on his part would arouse suspicions of his loyalties again. The truth was that Kendall would have never allowed him this responsibility if Sydney hadn't been a pivotal part of this operation.  
  
As if she could sense the course of his thoughts, he felt her eyes on him from across the utility room they had set their equipment up in. He lifted his head and gave her a tiny smile, which she took as an invitation to come stand beside him. When she positioned herself at a distance next to him acceptable to protocol, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, enjoying that intimate motion while still keeping the embrace out of view of any one who would be looking on. "Are you going to be okay?"  
  
"Me?" she asked, inclining back more as he began to trace his thumb in slow lines up and down the rough material of her suit jacket. "I'm fine with this." It was a blatant lie; of all people, she was best at lying to herself.   
  
If he could have, he would have kept her out of this, but it was impossible not to involve her. In exchange for the information on Sloane that they wanted, Irina Derevko had requested three things: safe passage, a Rambaldi manuscript, and a meeting with her daughter. Usually the Agency wouldn't have allowed even their most composed agents to put themselves in a situation like this with Irina's betrayal still so raw, much less Sydney, who had a history of being emotionally unstable. Sydney, though, had insisted on meeting her mother's demands because she believed that bringing Sloane to justice was more imperative than her personal conflicts.   
  
His only consolation was that he would be there with her when it was over, when she allowed herself to break down piece by piece.  
  
"If anything happens, I'll be right her if you need me," he reminded her lightly, tapping his ear to indicate her comm.  
  
"My guardian angel," she smirked as she tested the words on her tongue again. "The Archangel Michael." She ducked her head, making sure that no one but Weiss could see them, before she captured his mouth in a brief and very unsatisfactory kiss.  
  
He reached out to pull her back to him, but caught the activity of more people entering the room out of the corner of his eye and released her instead, stepping back. "Be careful." Like everything else he said to her, it couldn't be taken at face value, there were hundreds of layers of meaning underneath those outwardly simple words.  
  
She nodded her understanding as an agent called her name, indicating it was time for her to leave for the warehouse down the street where she would exchange the Rambaldi for Irina's information on Sloane, and she turned away to follow him out.   
  
Weiss sauntered over to him, casually shuffling a pile of papers as he collided a little ruthlessly against Vaughn's shoulder to attract his attention. "Stop that," he hissed under his breath.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Smiling like a fool."  
  
"Oh." The smile slid away. "Sorry."  
  
"Don't apologize." Weiss half-turned to see the way Sydney had gone. "No man ever has to apologize for something like that. Just try to be a little more, ya know, discrete. I won't always be here to cover your ass."   
  
Vaughn followed the direction of his gaze, "She will be fine, won't she?"  
  
"Sydney? She'll be great. She can do this kind of stuff in her sleep." He shrugged off the sharp glare that his friend sent him, "What? You didn't say you wanted the truth."  
  
Any remark he could have made in response was interrupted by a polite touch on his shoulder as he was offered his headset and nodded towards the two screens displaying the surveillance footage. He sank down into the chair left for him, scanning the images in front of him: one showing Sydney fidgeting a bit nervously inside the building, and the other, a dark car coasting down the narrow lane outside.  
  
"Mountaineer, we have a car approaching from the southeast. No identities verified."  
  
The car rattled to stop on the pitted pavement, and after an excruciating pause, the door opened. The first to appear were two guards, visibly carrying semi-automatics, but then she appeared--Irina Derevko--accepting the arm one of the men offered her with her perfect, boneless grace.  
  
As the sun revealed the face of his father's murderer, he felt an old hatred stirring in him, a childhood flame of loathing that burned with enough heat that it seemed it could scorch his soul; her presence itself had the ability to bring about a darker side of him. He took a cruel sort of satisfaction in the knowledge that not only was the Rambaldi an adeptly constructed fake, but there was also a team waiting to extract her after the meeting. Criminals like Irina rarely kept their promises, so why should he keep his?  
  
"We've got four confirmed people: two guards, a driver, and Derevko."   
  
The two armed men spread out as they entered the warehouse, and Irina walked between them, looking neither left nor right, only at her daughter. The first words they spoke were terse and deliberate, their flashing eyes and tense bodies communicating more that they ever could. It didn't take more than a few minutes for their conversation to turn venomous, though, their hand flailing angrily and their words coming more rapidly as they argued over some point.  
  
For the first time he wished they had audio as well as video, but Sydney had contended against it, pointing out that anyone could pick up the frequency, and they had listened to her.  
  
He watched intently as their countenances calmed back down, the two women reaching some sort of agreement, but a demanding hand on his shoulder suspended his attentiveness, "Vaughn, you need to take the phone call."  
  
He fumbled with the phone, dividing his concentration briefly, "Vaughn here."  
  
"Tell Sydney not to give Derevko the Rambaldi."  
  
"Wha--Why?"  
  
"There was a switch, a mix-up. It's the real thing. Do not let Derevko get a hold of it!"  
  
He ended the call without another comment, switching hastily over to his headset, "Whatever you do, do not give Derevko the Rambaldi. There's been a mistake; it's the real one. Just keep her talking for a few more minutes, and we'll have the team in to take her into custody."  
  
He could only watch in horror as Sydney drew the briefcase out, laying across some of the crates, and gingerly unwrapping the bundle from the water-resistant covering. "Mountaineer! Did you hear me? Do not give Derevko the Rambaldi!"  
  
Her focus unwavering, she placed the documents in Irina's outstretched hands, and the older woman cradled them gently for a moment, a dark fervor entering her posture for a moment before she replaced it in the bag and entrusted it to one of her guards. Satisfied that it was safe, Irina focused on Sydney, grasping her daughter's hand in her own--and Sydney let her--as she began to lead her compliantly out of the building, like one might a small child, their shoulders leaning together like they were supporting each other, a world-weariness dropping suddenly over both women.  
  
"Sydney!"  
  
She stopped short of the door when she heard his voice, every muscle going rigid abruptly. She spun around with reluctance, as if something was paining her, and for a long, breathless instant she stared directly into the camera, her brown eyes large and intense like she was trying to see through the equipment to him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she raised a hand to her ear and turned her comm off.  
  
A bullet exploded into the air, shattering through the camera, and the screen before him went blank.  
  
He could feel her name ready to spill out a second time, but he swallowed it instead, sensing it burn its way down his throat. He wouldn't say it again, it was already to late to call her back; she was gone. 


	2. Worst Case Scenario

Chapter Two  
Worst Case Scenario  
  
"...But I can't believe that Sydney would just switch sides like that," he tried to explain to Kendall as he hovered behind the his shoulder, but his words didn't seem to penetrate the other man's stony exterior as he watched the video of Sydney from Mexico City. "There's no motivation for it. She hates Sloane and her mother deceived her, deceived all of us. Sydney and I, we talked about how easily Derevko could give us false information, even when she was back in our custody, and Sydney might have decided to take matters into her own hands to make sure that couldn't happen. It has to be something she planned to get close to both Sloane and Derevko, take them down from the inside. I can't--I won't believe Sydney would ever do this to us."   
  
He concluded his speech a little breathlessly and looked to Kendall, who was regarding the monitor with extreme intensity as it showed him the image of Sydney opening the briefcase. He considered for a long moment before he chose his words, "Did you and Ms. Bristow ever plan this?"  
  
"No. I never brought it up because I dismissed it as too risky. You know what going that deep undercover can do to people--"  
  
"Yes, I do," Kendall interrupted him with a wave of his hand, his eyes still on Sydney as she handed over the documents to Irina. "Did she ever discuss this with any other agents that you know of?"  
  
"No, no, not that I'm aware..."  
  
His lips pressed into a grim line at the same time Sydney took Irina's hand. "Then we'll assume the worst." He shook his head a little, as if he were trying to clear it of some lingering doubt. "We have to accept the idea--no matter how implausible--that she has been working as an agent for Sloane inside the CIA for some time now, maybe from the very beginning. It is quite possible that she was never the person we thought she was." He swung around to face Vaughn for the first time, catching his eyes like he could bore his message straight into them. "Forget everything you ever knew about her, Vaughn; it was all a game, a ploy. Sydney Bristow is the enemy now."  
  
He had been expecting this declaration from nearly the moment that he had realized she was really gone, but he had still reserved some pocket of hope that maybe everything would turn out for the best, so the statement hit him harder than it should have. A knot began to form in the pit of stomach and a faint ache started in his chest at the revelation that their whole relationship could have been based on a fabrication, that she had lied when she said she loved him.  
  
Behind Kendall, Sydney's eyes stared at him hauntingly, saying goodbye in a way only she could.  
  
Kendall must have perceived the emotions rolling off of him because his temperament seemed to melt the tiniest bit, and he placed an almost comforting hand on the Vaughn's arm. "Why don't you go home? Take a week or two vacation. Maybe with time you'll get some perspective." Kendall removed his hand while a bullet sliced untraceable through the air on the screen and it erupted into static. "When you come back everything will be better."  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
He felt dirty, used, and his skin crawled where the ghosts of her hands touched. He wanted to wash her off, find the harshest soap he could and scrub away the memories. But he couldn't go home, he wasn't ready to face that yet, because she was there too; she was in the extra toothbrush by the sink and the clothes she had left last time she was over, the whole place reeked of her scent, like honeysuckles and spring rain.  
  
So he drove. He drove because the roads never ended, and maybe they would finally take him someplace far enough away that she got left behind. Eventually though, he found himself closer than he meant to be. He put the car in park and gazed out across the humid California night to her house, watching the two figures flicker and move in the light of the windows. Will and Francie.  
  
He wondered what they would be told, what lies would they make up for Francie, and if they would let Will know the horrible truth of it all. He wondered if Sydney had ever considered what her desertion would do to all of them while making her decision. He wondered if she would have stayed if he had known to ask her to.   
  
A silhouette stole down the lawn towards the street, and he tensed automatically, a hand darting to his holster, but when a shaft of light fell on the person's face he relaxed, rolling down his passenger window instead.  
  
"Hey," Will greeted him with a lopsided smile. "I thought I saw someone out here." He braced an arm against the edge of the door and craned his head inside, looking into the back seat. "Syd's not with you? I thought since she wasn't home yet..." He trailed off as he finally read the undercurrents hanging in the air, and there was silence as Vaughn tried to frame his words carefully.  
  
He settled on, "Get in."  
  
Will obliged, precariously sliding into the seat next to Vaughn like he expected the ground to drop out from underneath him at any moment. Little did he know it already had.  
  
And Vaughn drove; he drove until he found an empty gravel parking lot miles from anything he knew because he was still trying to run away from the heartache that was chasing him. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, glancing out into the blackness beyond the windshield, and discovered yes, the pain was there too.   
  
Will was quiet the whole ride, sitting still with his features cast in the sickly green light reflecting off the dashboard, his lips pressed tight together as he undoubtedly ran every gruesome scenario over in his mind. Even after they stopped, it took him awhile to calm his shaking insides and scrounge up the courage to ask.   
  
"How did it happen? H-how did she die?"  
  
Vaughn's profile was full of sharp lines and angles as he kept his eyes on the darkness outside. "She's not dead."  
  
Will shoulders eased some, but he still had other fears. "Has she been captured?"  
  
"No, not captured."  
  
"Then what the hell happened?" he cried impatiently.  
  
Will's sudden vehemence threw him off guard and some of his own anger leaked through the walls he had been building, "She's a damn traitor!" He lowered his voice, clenching his hands around each other as he shook off the outburst, "She joined forces with Sloane and her mother while we were in Mexico City, handed the Rambaldi over to Irina in front of everyone and walked out with her."  
  
"No, she couldn't have." Vaughn heard himself in Will's fierce denial, and he felt a shooting pity for the other man that would have broken his heart if it hadn't already been in pieces.  
  
Will saw the look the other man gave him, tired and gaunt and so disillusioned, with the truth screaming in it in a way he couldn't ignore. "Oh God," he whispered, collapsing back into his seat. "Oh God. What am I going to tell Francie?"  
  
"I don't give a damn," Vaughn snapped coldly, dropping his head onto the steering wheel. He was unable even to comfort himself, so how could he be expected to reach out to Will?  
  
There was a pause from the other side of the car before a hand laid itself tentatively on his back in a gesture of support. It was only then that he realized how insensitive he was being. Sydney had been Will's friend too, and this had to hurt him just as much as it had Vaughn.  
  
He raised his head, giving Will a genial nod as his hand fell away, and started the engine back up. Neither one made an attempt to speak on the way back to the house, each knowing how the other felt, knowing that they weren't the kind of emotions you could ever describe, and even if you had the words, would never want to talk about until years and years later when the wounds had healed. As of now, the wounds were open and bleeding.  
  
Will climbed out of the car and shut the door behind him, and he was about to start up towards the house when Vaughn stopped him with a light touch on his knuckle. Will wavered and the two men locked eyes.   
  
"You're a good guy, Will."  
  
Will started to turn away again, but lingered for a few seconds more, unsure. "I--I really do think she cared about you." Before Vaughn could ask what he meant, though, Will was gone, striding up the sidewalk to the house to face his drastically changed life.   
  
Vaughn watched as he disappeared into the door and took a few deep breaths, deciding he was at last ready to confront his apartment. He put the car in gear and began to slowly glide down the street, but Will emerged from the inside again, running this time, his arms waving in a desperate attempt to flag him down. Vaughn pressed on the brake to let him catch up, and Will clung to the door as he did, hanging half way in the window as he dragged in heavy lungfuls of air. "Francie," came the broken voice, "she's gone." His eyes were wide and frightened as they sought out Vaughn's and he looked very young and vulnerable, much like what he was: someone who had just lost his two best friends in the world.  
  
Wordlessly, Vaughn reached over the seats to open the door, and Will crumpled in next to him in a disconsolate heap. He had to give Will some credit for his valiant effort to keep his emotions in check, but everyone is afraid of being alone, and Will was a man who had suddenly found himself very much alone after the double blows of Sydney and Francie. It wasn't long before the tears began to flow, and he let his head fall into his hands and filled the dark, velvet night with his despairing, hopeless sobs. 


	3. Loophole

Chapter Three  
Loophole  
  
Time passes quickly when you expect the world to end at any instant; but it didn't, and the next day rose the same as the last, and the next, and the one after that, until three weeks separated him from the events in Mexico City. He took Kendall's advice and spent the hours on vacation--as much of a vacation as the inside of his apartment was, where the only faces he ever saw were Eric and Will and Donovan.  
  
He has nightmares now, the kind where he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, he throat raw and his arms reaching for apparitions that have already disappeared. He always sees her in his dreams, standing like he last saw her, looking back at him with her eyes deep enough to drown in. She'll open her mouth to speak, to expose something that he knows will change everything, but that's when the world shatters, splinters into jagged black slivers sharp enough to cut.  
  
He was dumped abruptly into consciousness in the middle of his living room, halfway off the couch and fighting a losing battle with the thin blanket he had thrown over himself at some time over the course of the night. He freed his body from the constraining folds and dropped the rest of the way to the floor, pressing his back against the solid bulk of the couch as he drew in shaky breaths, while across the room the laugh track coming from the television mocked his distress.  
  
It took him a few minutes, watching the VCR clock tick over from 3 a.m. to three after, to soothe the turmoil raging in his head, to convince himself that he was still real and whole--and she was not.   
  
His irritation finally forced him to his feet, and he scrabbled in the wreck of the cushions until he recovered the remote, jabbing violently at the buttons before he finally hit the right one that made the TV screen go blank; the room plunged into a silence, the most terrifying of sounds.  
  
He knows after nearly a month of nights like these that he won't be able to sleep again, but he can't stay where he is.  
  
He glanced down at his clothing, a pair of sweatpants and a King's shirt, and hoped that no one else would be wandering around at this hour to see him since he had no intention of changing. He embarked on a frenzied search for his tennis shoes, but only came up with his dress ones; he heaved a sigh and put them on anyway. He grabbed up his keys and his wallet and looked back one more time to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. Donovan gazed back him from the nest of blanket and cushions he had abandoned, he whined and shook his back end before giving up and dropping his head between his paws; he's already used to the new nocturnal habits of his owner.  
  
He's been everywhere around L.A. where they were ever together searching for closure, some memory that will trigger a response in him and enable him to finally let her go; he even spent a few hours last week drifting around the convenience store, hunting for it between bags of Fritos. There's only one place he refused to go, somehow everything he associated with the warehouse would destroy the adversary he had been building in his mind and reduce her to the sweet, noble Sydney he had known, making him incapable of escaping her charms forever.  
  
This was the last time, he promised himself as he pulled up to the pier; after he went back to work tomorrow he wouldn't have time or energy to waste on sentimental escapades like this. Tomorrow, he'll compartmentalize, because there comes an occasion when you finally realize you won't die of it and you have live out the rest of your life.   
  
Tomorrow. But today he's reserved for sinking into all those vulnerable things he's going to miss now they're gone.  
  
He wasn't surprised at all by the black SUV that pulled up next to his own car, and he was unmoving as Jack Bristow settled beside him, leaning stiffly against the railing. He hadn't seen much of the elder Bristow lately, but from what Vaughn had witnessed, he seemed to have been reduced to shadow of himself, or more accurately Kendall's shadow, always following a step behind to do his bidding. But the man who stood next to him presently was not grief-stricken in the least.  
  
"I know what you're thinking," Jack pronounced confidently, his eyes on the point where the sky and sea met, "And you're wrong. She's not like her mother."  
  
Vaughn didn't rise to the bait, and Jack seemed almost disappointed, but he continued nonetheless, "She wants to see you, give herself a chance to explain."   
  
That shocked an answer out of him, ridding him of any pretense he had of remaining unruffled under Jack's scrutiny. "She's still in the area?"  
  
Jack relaxed, in his element now that he had made his companion suitably uncomfortable. "I'm not so stupid that I would tell you that."  
  
"Why are you helping her, Jack?"  
  
"I thought you of all people would understand. I wanted my daughter out of this life, but she would never leave until Sloane was gone, and even then the CIA wouldn't let an asset as valuable as her walk out." Vaughn started to protest, but Jack cut him off with one biting glare. "Don't. I don't want to hear your naïve sense of allegiance. We both know they would have found an excuse to keep her. But I found a loophole."  
  
"So you gave her to the enemy?" he erupted, unable to control his anger any longer.  
  
"Not exactly the enemy. Irina and I have a..." he rummaged around for a word that could describe their unique relationship, "...a common ground when it comes to Sydney. We want what's best for her, so I called in a favor that she was sure to agree to. In return for what I asked, I made sure she got what she wanted: Rambaldi. That's how alliances work, Agent Vaughn, neither side has to like each other as long as they get what they want."  
  
"I don't know," Vaughn addressed the horizon, unable to meet the other man's eyes and retain his dignity. "I don't think I can do it. Coming face-to-face with her after this...I can't trust anyone anymore. Not even you."  
  
Jack pushed back from the railing and took the first steps towards his car, sending Vaughn one last smoldering glower. "I really had expected better of you, boy," he snarled condescendingly.  
  
"You know, Jack," Vaughn said carelessly, stopping the other man in his tracks, "I could turn you in for what you've admitted here."  
  
"Yes," Jack countered, regarding the younger agent for the first time as a true threat to himself and his twisted sense of family, "You could."  
  
"Tell her I'll meet her at four o'clock tomorrow. She knows where." 


	4. Mistakes

Chapter Four  
Mistakes  
  
* Maybe it's not  
That I don't care anymore  
Maybe I just never did  
You can't say  
That I have ever lied  
Because I kept the truth well hid  
Tell me what's wrong  
Is something wrong?  
You can't be sad  
When something you have never had   
Suddenly feels gone  
  
I wish you health  
I wish you happiness  
But absolutely nothing else *  
  
--Health and Happiness, The Wallflowers  
  
It was all one big mistake after another.  
  
He shouldn't have made the meeting so late; any time to think is too much time, especially when you're doing your thinking in the CIA ops center under the curious eyes of Kendall and Jack Bristow. His mind had chased itself in circles, beating out a frantic pace as it tried to decide who was lying to him, and who--if anyone--was telling him the truth, whom was he betraying, who deserved his trust and to whom should he give his loyalties. His fears and suspicions had finally deteriorated his semblance of concentration to the point where Kendall approached him to suggest a session with Dr. Barnett.  
  
He shouldn't have chosen the rendezvous site as the warehouse, either. He had had to spend a good deal of effort securing the location, borrowing a few bug killers off an unsuspecting Marshall and looping the constant surveillance feed they kept on the place. But despite the physical efforts he had to go to, the emotional ramifications would be that much worse. This was hallowed ground to him, a sacred temple built of all his best memories, and seeing her here, under these circumstances, would certainly tear it down piece by piece.  
  
It was dangerous, too. Not dangerous in the way that she might pull a gun or a knife on him, but one smile from her was nearly as crippling as a blade between his ribs. He doesn't know what kind of effect she'll have on him because he doesn't know just how much she'll play on his 'emotional attachment' to gain sympathy, to persuade him to her cause--whatever that was. It's hard to admit, but the truth is he's still half in love with the woman. Hell, maybe even three-quarters. But that last quarter is reserved for a shady, slimy feeling that pools at the base of his backbone, something that he associates with people like Irina Derevko, something that he's been taught to term professionalism.  
Like always, he hears her footsteps clicking on the concrete before he sees her, and that fact gives him the upper hand, allowing him to pick the best defensible position in the caged area--in this instance settled lazily on a crate--and to compose his face into a mask of indifference, hopefully putting on air of distance that with discourage her.   
  
As her shadow separated itself from the rest that filled the echoing spaces a muscle jumped involuntarily in his jaw and his gaze clung to every curve, verifying what he had only dared to dream: she was still safe and whole. She paused at the fence and the light edged its way across her features.   
  
No matter what ethereal image his mind cloaked her in, it was undeniable, she looked terrible. Judging from her appearance, she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in almost a month; under her eyes were awful dark circles that resembled new bruises, new haggard lines had etched themselves around her mouth and eyes, and she had tried to disguise the fact that her hair was limp and lifeless by pulling it back in a severe ponytail.  
  
"Vaughn, I--"  
  
"Don't talk. Just--just not another word, okay?" His voice came out a little quieter, less commanding than he meant it to, but she complied anyway, her fingers interlacing with the chain link enclosure like she was drawing strength from the sturdy metal. He forced more venom into his tone, "I didn't come to hear your excuses."   
  
Confusion flitted over her face, making her seem even more innocent in his eyes. "Then what did you come for?"  
  
He shouldn't have, but he felt he had an obligation to explain himself to her. "I came...to, to make it real for me. To see you here, of your own compulsion..." He motioned dispassionately with his hand, indicating every inch of her. "And I came to see if I could really do it."  
  
"Do what?" Her voice was gentle, cajoling, as if she were trying to coax a skittish animal.  
  
He lifted back his jacket, revealing his holster, and leisurely pulled out his gun. He cradled it in his hands, staring at it instead of her. "I have permission to shoot you on sight, you know. I wanted to see if I could."  
  
"So?" Though she tried to hide it, her hand quivered where it was locked around the metal of the cage, causing the whole length of it to shake and shudder.  
  
His arms folded helplessly back to his sides, all the strength draining instantly out of them. "But I can't. I can't do it. Not after everything we've been through."  
  
Her obvious relief manifested itself in a smile, one glorious, heart-rending smile that was nearly his undoing. "Vaughn, you have to understand," she began as she took a step toward him.  
  
His arms came back up in a way of warding her off, not realizing he was even now clutching the gun until he saw it aimed at her. She stopped in mid-stride, the breath for words escaping her lips in a gasp.  
  
He waved the gun threateningly in her direction, knowing only that if she came any closer he would lose what little control he still retained, that he would follow her anywhere. But he can't do that, he's devoted his life to his government in memory of his father and she can't change that with one look, she can't change his past and she won't have the future he's been planning for so long now. "Go. Get out of here before I decide I can shoot you."  
  
She hovered for a moment longer, something forming in her eyes, but he turned his head away before it could reach him. He heard the first footfall, hesitant, then the next a little stronger, hammering out a faster and faster retreat the way she had come. He stayed like he was until the last echo of her shoes on the concrete died out forever. He prayed silently that she had finally walked out of his life, but he knew in some corner of his mind that he would never be that lucky.  
  
And all the while, he couldn't escape the feeling that he had made a mistake. 


	5. The Go Ahead

A/N: The good news is Spring Break has finally arrived! The bad news is I'm going to be spending it on a boat in the middle of nowhere without a computer. So, this may be my last update until I get back next week...unless I can pound another chapter out before I leave. If you review I just might type faster *hint, hint*  
  
Chapter Five  
The Go Ahead  
  
He scrambled after Kendall, trying to get a word in as he dodged objects and people. "...A month and a half after she disappears, Sydney Bristow suddenly turns up in London--and that's information I didn't need to know?"  
  
Kendall ignored him as he continued to weave through the ops center towards some unknown destination except to toss out an irate statement, "You can't be included in everything that goes on around here, Vaughn. I already have a very capable team working on this, and it was my judgment that you didn't need to be involved."  
  
"'Capable'?" he demanded, still close on the other man's heels so that his comment couldn't be disregarded. "Not even your most capable team will be able to track someone as expert as Sydney. That's why you do need me. I know this woman; how she acts, how she thinks. I can predict her every move."  
  
Kendall stopped unexpectedly and turned on him, his temper fraying. "Then why didn't you see her last move coming?" He shook his head disappointedly at the look that crossed Vaughn's face, full of childlike hurt, and picked up his stride again, but slower this time so that Vaughn could keep pace. "We've been over this before. You know nothing about her. We can't be sure of anything we once thought of Sydney Bristow, and the person you knew could possibly act nothing like the one we're dealing with now...The only thing we're certain of is her parentage." Kendall looked pointedly across the distance of the rotunda at Jack Bristow, who stared back with narrowed eyes, obviously aware of their topic of discussion. For a moment Vaughn couldn't breathe, feeling that gaze wrap around his throat like fingers, knowing exactly what Jack wanted to do to him for the way he had treated Sydney. Then the he turned away, freeing his victim from the stranglehold of his fierce look; he had a cover to maintain after all.  
  
"But isn't it worth the chance I'm right just to catch her?" he continued as if nothing had passed between him and Jack. "And if I'm not, there's the added benefit of one extra man on the team."  
  
Kendall opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, his chin dropping slightly. "Fine. Go."  
  
The concession caught him by surprise, and it took him moment to process exactly what had just transpired. "Go?" he repeated dazedly.  
  
"Yes. Go. Tell Agent Weiss that you're on his team under my orders."  
  
He looked sideways at his superior, for the first time really looking at him, seeing how defeated he truly appeared, like all of the fight had been drained out of him. He extended his glance to the rest of the people, finally realizing how lost they all seemed, stumbling through as if they had lost some precious object they were unsure of how to live without; Marshall was in constant danger of bursting into tears at the smallest mishap, the only thing between Dixon and collapsing onto his desk was one hand propped halfheartedly under his chin, and Weiss--Weiss had taken the news almost as badly as Vaughn, it had never occurred to him that someone so close to him could turn like that; he changed so much in so few weeks though he tried to hide it, his smile was a little faded and his humor fell a little flat, because he was dealing with a emotion he had never experienced before: vengeance. That was why he had put himself forth to head the team trying to snare Sydney, he needed somewhere to direct that energy, something substantial to cool his rage.   
  
They had lost something precious. Sydney had taken a something of them with her, some of their youthful hope, some of their trust, and some of their purpose. Without her, they would never be what they were before.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
All their leads were dead ends, and it took them only two days in London to ultimately figure that fact out, two days of following cold trails and bribing men who never pried open their lips. Sydney had vanished as quickly as she had materialized.  
  
But the team of ten agents was stuck abroad until further word from a stubborn HQ which believed they simply weren't trying hard enough, dawdling aimlessly in their hotel rooms, reading over and over again uncompromising black and white papers that refused to yield up their secrets.  
  
He had resigned himself to the same fate as the rest when a tremor in his stomach reminded him that there was a world outside he was entitled to see, government job or no. He pushed aside the packet he had been studying and sat up on the pliant bed, adjusting himself as it gave under the shift of his weight.  
  
"I'm going out," he announced to the bulge on the other bed, reaching for his shoes at the same time. "Maybe see some of the sights, get something to eat. Do you want to come?"  
  
"Go outside?" Weiss's muffled voice came from a grouping of pillows. "No thanks, I've gotten enough exercise in the last two days to last me a lifetime."  
  
Vaughn stood and tried unsuccessfully to make himself presentable, tugging at the wrinkled suit he was still wearing from an earlier meeting with a man whose memory had suddenly lapsed at the last moment on the subject of one particular woman. "I should rephrase that. Do you want me to bring you anything back?"  
  
"Do you have to ask? Food. And lots of it." His attempt at hilarity was useless on the frame of mind that Vaughn was in, falling hollow and meaningless between the two of them.  
  
Vaughn mumbled something along the lines of "Sure" as he made his way to the door, but just as his hand fell on the doorknob Weiss changed his mind. "On second thought, try to find me something without any fruits or nuts."  
  
"Fruits or nuts? Allergic to healthy foods, are you?"   
  
"Well, my mother always told me, you are what you eat."  
  
It took a few seconds for him to recognize the joke, but when he did it was enough to startle a full-throated laugh out of him. The laughter felt so natural, fluttering around inside him, that a few more escaped without him recognizing what was happening.   
  
He was still smiling as the hallway opened out in front of him. "Too late, Eric. Far too late."  
  
And as he closed the door, he couldn't rid himself of the undeniable idea that today was going to be a good day. 


	6. Maybe, Just Maybe

Chapter Six  
Maybe, Just Maybe  
  
* What else can I do?  
I said I'm sorry, yeah I'm sorry.  
I said I'm sorry, but what for?  
If I hurt you then I hate myself.  
I don't want to hate myself, don't want to hurt you.  
  
Why do you chew your pain?  
If you only knew how much I love you, love you.  
  
I won't be your winter.  
I won't be anyone's excuse to cry.  
We can be forgiven-  
I will be here. *  
  
--Your Winter, Sister Hazel  
  
He noticed her the third time she passed by his window.   
  
He had decided on a small restaurant for lunch and had convinced the hostess with the most compelling smile he could muster to seat him by the window overlooking the street outside so he could people watch. It's become almost a second nature to him after all his years of training, studying people like he does; he keeps half his mind on what those around him are doing and that habit tends to keep him a step ahead of trouble. There's only been one woman who's shaken that instinctive concentration of his, occupied his awareness fully with her presence--and gotten him into a tight spot for that temporary failure--but he doesn't like to mention her name, not even in the quiet of his own thoughts.  
  
Sometimes, though, he people watches purely for his own diversion. He likes to pick out one or two of them from the crowd and imagine what their lives are like, where they live and work, what they dream of doing. And slowly he integrates himself into their existence, maybe as a coworker or a friend, someone who they would stop on the sidewalk to say hello and shake hands with without any fear of being seen in public together. Then they would both fade away back into the anonymous mob, just two more among billions. Every now and then he even imagines what it would have been like to meet Sydney that way, just two strangers with normal jobs passing each other in the park, hurrying home to get out of the rain; he would bump her shoulder by accident, and she would drop the book she was carrying into a growing puddle. They would both stoop to pick it up, murmuring apologies as they looked up and their eyes clashed, time freezing around them. Maybe he would scoop up the soggy book and gallantly offer to buy her a new one, or maybe dinner? She would smile, flattered at the attention, and accept. Their second date he would take her to the movies, their third would be to his favorite café in the city, and on their second year anniversary he would rent out the ice skating rink and propose to her right there. Or maybe she would just take back her book on that rainy afternoon, telling him it was no problem at all, and walk the other way.  
  
The first time she passed by his window, she was just one of the many blurry, indistinct faces, swabbed in a tan trench coat as she was swept along with the current of the mass of moving people. The second time, he only caught a glimpse of tan cloth winding around the corner, but it made him instantly suspicious that she would go by the same spot twice. The third time he was waiting for her, and she knew she was being observed as she found his eyes. Resigned, she approached the door and the bell jingled to announce her arrival as she opened it. She and the hostess exchanged a few polite words, and the other woman began to lead her towards the center of the seating area, but she protested, requesting respectfully if it wasn't too much of a bother, could she please be seated by the window? It was such a beautiful day outside and she wanted to see it. Usually, such a request would have been seen as rude and picky, but the matronly woman could little take offense from the wide-eyed look she was given and the slightest hint of a trembling lip. So, she slipped into the seat behind him, putting them back-to-back like they had been so many times before in communal spaces like this, and across the limited space he could almost felt the heat she displaced searing his skin.  
  
"You shouldn't be here," he started his scolding in a low voice so no one would notice, just as Sydney matched his tone, "I told myself I wouldn't come, but--"  
  
Silence fell as they both waited on the other, and Sydney snatched up the thread of conversation after a long pause. "I told myself I wouldn't come," she echoed firmly, each word pronounced in a clipped manner like she was trying to keep her voice from wobbling, "but I couldn't help myself." He glanced sharply towards the window at that remark, where he could make out her faint, wavy outline reflected there, tracing trembling fingers across her tabletop as she stared at the woodwork. "It kills me to think that you could hate me without ever giving me a chance to explain myself. I can't help thinking that maybe, maybe if you heard why I did it then you could see what was so important that I couldn't tell you about it...Maybe you could forgive me."   
  
"I'm listening now." But she didn't get a chance to speak as the waitress advanced to take her order. Sydney asked for tea only, and they remain rigidly staring in the opposite direction of each other until she brought it back and departed again.   
  
She took a long draught out of her cup like it was courage itself. "The CIA was getting no where with its search for Sloane and my mother, so Dad and I came up with a plan."  
  
"What about me in all of this?" It was a selfish remark, but a desperately broken part of him needed the answer.  
  
"I would have let you in on it, Vaughn, I swear I almost did, but I knew you would have talked me out of it, and your reaction had to be genuine like everyone else's so they wouldn't suspect you of treason again."   
  
"That's not what I meant."  
  
"Vaughn..." the word was raw and throbbing with pain.  
  
"Never mind." He hadn't meant to cause her anguish, and he hurried to mend his cutting suggestion. "Finish what you were saying."  
  
Things were quiet between them as she tried to recover her point in the tale."...So Dad made an arrangement with Mom to get me on the inside of Sloane's operations; Sloane may never trust my being there, but he would never deny my mother anything she wants. So this way, I get access not only to him but also to his operations, and--though she doesn't know it--to my mother's as well. They're all going to share the same fate.  
  
"It should have been over and done with within a week, but I had to change my plans. He's building something, Vaughn, some Rambaldi device worse than anything we've seen yet. If I do it now, while it's still uncompleted, someone could pick up where he left off, but if I wait until it's done I can destroy him and his work at the same time. I want him to know he failed." She closed her mouth quickly after the last part spilled out in an angry burst, washing the resentment down with more of her tea, and started again more gently. "And then, when it's over, I get my life, Vaughn. A life with no strings attached."  
  
She froze, and he perceived her reflection in the glass out of the corner of his eye furrow its brow as a new thought dawned on her. "But there are strings already, aren't there? They all must hate me for what I've done."  
  
Before he could assure her unreasonably that of course they didn't, she shook her head to clear it from her melancholy. "It so much more complicated than what I've told you, though. I can't discuss everything here; it's too dangerous." She dug in her coat pocket and passed the scrap of paper she produced to him under the cover of their chairs. "You can leave a message for me there and I'll find you."  
  
He memorized the phone number as quickly as he could and tore it into tiny pieces, dropping them into the remainder of his drink and let them dissolve. Then he casually edged a hand under the lapel of his jacket, his fingers prodding around for some object.  
  
Sydney knew what he kept under there, and she wilted as she realized her words had had no effect on him. "You have a right to," she told him evenly to disguise the quivering inside her, meekly accepting her lot. "You should have done it when we met in the warehouse...but can we go somewhere more private? I don't want to disturb these people's meals."  
  
But instead of producing the gun she had been expecting, he flung a wad of cash onto the table. "If you reach over before the waitress comes, there should be enough there to cover your drink. Lunch is on me." He detached himself, everything about him subtly adjusting to convey his regret that she could think him able to do such a thing. "I need time to think," he addressed the air in front of him as he pushed back from the table, and he strode out without looking back.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
He had just slid his key into the door, pushing down on the handle so the door swung in ahead of him, when he realized he had overlooked what he had gone out for in the first place.   
  
"Shit," he announced to the room. "I'm sorry, Eric. I completely forgot your food."  
  
Weiss turned towards him, one hand shutting his laptop with an audible click. "Don't worry about it. I wouldn't have had time to eat anyway. We have to get ready." It was only when he saw the confused expression that flickered across Vaughn's face that he became conscious that he wasn't following, and he elaborated.  
  
"Mike, we've found Sydney."  
A/N: So, pretty good chapter, huh? Or was it absolutely horrible? I need you to tell me. Leave me some nice feedback to read when I get home from vacation. Please? 


	7. Divine Intervention

A/N: Wow. I feel loved. You have no idea how good it was to come home from a horrible, boring vacation (we weren't in Key West long enough to do anything, it rained in Cozumel, I injured myself, there was no one my age to talk to, and I was locked in a tiny cabin with my psycho mother) to your wonderful comments. Thank you all, especially neumy who has been unfailingly encouraging of this story :) I hope this newest update meets your standards!  
  
Chapter Seven  
Divine Intervention  
  
He slipped out while the rest of the team was preparing and found the nearest public phone. He dialed the numbers from memory and listened to the distant ring on the other end, chewing over his motivations for doing what he was. The problem was that there were no motivations, he couldn't explain it to himself and probably never would be able to. For some mysterious reason, despite the high probability that she was lying to him, he believed Sydney and every word that fell from her lips in a wholehearted, incurable kind of way. That was why he needed to warn her.  
  
One of Weiss's contacts had revealed that Sloane and his associates would be attending a party that evening with the sole purpose of purchasing a Rambaldi artifact from the host, a Mr. Amberath. Sloane and his company, which according to his invitation would include two women who were presumably Sydney and Irina, would meet Mr. Amberath in the main hallway at 8 p.m. before the two men would move upstairs to work out a price, a bargaining that Vaughn was entirely confident would end with a single bullet.  
  
Earlier, when Vaughn had questioned what source had given him such detailed intel, Weiss had given him an odd sidelong glance as if the answer should have been apparent. "The wife."  
  
Vaughn had raised his eyebrows, not so much surprised as disheartened by the revelation; what had happened to all the good marriages? "And why would she do that?"  
  
Weiss had heaved his shoulders dismissively, "How the hell should I know? Maybe he has a mistress, or he murdered a friend of hers, or he left the toilet seat up one too many times, or something equally as criminal. All that matters is that we're close, Mike, so close to Sydney. It's going to be over for good this time."   
  
The wife had cooperatively arranged for a childhood friend of hers as well as a few of his associates to be invited last minute to her home, and the men would spread out to monitor the house once they arrived. Vaughn had been given a post watching over the ballroom, but it was basically a job to placate a damaged man, with no risk or effort involved for him; they didn't expect to see Sydney or any of the others there, they expected them in bedrooms, or the study, or the library, or even to catch them entering the main hall, but not mingling among the other guests where they could be noticed and remembered.  
  
A monotonous, lackluster female voice answered on the second ring, declaring both her name and the name of the hotel before asking how she could assist him. For a moment, his mouth went dry as he realized he was betraying the only person that had stood by him, robbing his truest friend of the target he desired most...and then the moment passed.  
  
So sorry, Eric. Maybe one day he would understand.  
  
"Yes," he began, switching the phone in a business-like manner to rest between his shoulder and ear so that he was free to scan his surroundings, but there were no tails that he could detect. "I was wondering if you had a woman staying there, late twenties, brown hair, brown eyes, about 5'9, probably traveling with an older woman of roughly the same description."  
  
"You must mean Ms. Graham," the lady said, her tone filling with more warmth at the introduction of a topic that was enjoyable to her. "Lovely girl, so handsome and polite, the spitting image of her mother."  
  
He flinched at the implications of the last statement, but managed to keep his intonation pleasant. "Yes, yes. That's her. I was wondering if I could leave a message for her?"  
  
There was a fumbling on the other end while she searched for pen and paper. "Go ahead," she prompted him.  
  
He hadn't planned this far ahead in his distracted haste to contact Sydney, and he had to scramble for something to say on the spur of the moment, some coded message that she would understand. "Tell her--tell her that I'll see her at the party tonight, and I hope that she doesn't mind that I'm bringing some of my friends along as well."  
  
"And who should I say this is from?"  
  
He struggled to dredge up some past alias of his that she would recognize, but failing that he improvised, "Angelo. William Angelo."  
  
He thanked her for her time and wrapped up the conversation, then he replaced the receiver, noticing with concern how his hand shook, the courage that had sustained him thus far slowly draining away. He reached his other hand around to hold it steady and turned blind eyes on the street as he made his way back to the hotel; all he saw before him were their faces, Eric and Sydney, two sides both with a unbreakable hold on him, dragging him in opposite directions.  
  
His only hope was that he would still be whole when all this was finally over.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
He knew she would come, somewhere in the back on his mind he knew she wouldn't pass up a chance to put herself in danger and multiply his worries in the process.  
  
He muscles had just begun to ache from standing still as he regarded the milling collection of people blending and interweaving around his withdrawn position in one of the many alcoves the room provided, a stance which he trusted would discourage anyone from recalling him in the wake of whatever events took place.   
  
He knew she would come, but that didn't prevent him from jumping when she brushed her fingertips along the sleeve of his rented tuxedo.  
  
He must have cursed or made some sound because their was a instant answering crackle in his ear. "Silver Dollar?" Weiss anxiously called his new codename; they had all been required to change their codenames since Sydney could have easily recognized the previous ones. "Is everything alright over there? Did you see something?"  
  
He tilted his head in next to the black curls of Sydney's wig so that it would appear to anyone passing by that he was talking to her instead of himself. "No." The lie slid effortlessly out; he kept waiting for the inevitable guilt to hit, but it never came. "There's nothing here. Two hours and still nothing. Someone must have tipped them off." Balls of steel. Weiss was right, he must have balls of steel to dare suggest that when he had been the one to give them away. "I'm going to wrap up in here, and I'll meet you in the parking lot in a few minutes. Going radio silent."  
  
As soon as it was safe to acknowledge her presence, he opened his mouth to admonish Sydney for coming. She knew how many morals he'd had to compromise, how many rules he'd broken, all he'd risked to make that phone call to caution her. It hurt, stung him in way nothing ever had before, that she would ignore all the dangers he'd put himself in for her and show up anyway.  
  
But all that died on his tongue, withered away by the fact that he was truly, sincerely relieved to see her alive and well and without a scratch.  
  
She brushed a long tendril of dark hair away from her face and turned the full power of her dazzling brown eyes on him. "I guess 'Thank you' would be inappropriate right now."  
  
He compressed his lips into a forbidding line. "Yeah. Yeah, it would be."  
  
She turned out to face the crowd in the room, her shoulder sidling in next to his as if it was the most natural position for her to be in, standing at his side. "I had to tell Sloane about the ambush, you understand. If the CIA captured him now it would ruin my whole plan, and leave the door open for someone like Sark or my mother to take up the reins of the operation. And then we'd only be back where we started. Plus, it adds credibility to my claim of switching sides.  
  
"But the drawback to telling him is that now we'll be on the move again; we can't stay in a place where they've pinned us down. He doesn't trust me enough to inform me ahead of time where we're going to, either." Her shoulders dipped hopelessly. "I wish I could tell you where it'll be, but I can't."  
  
His gut knotted, and he couldn't bring himself to look at her for fear of revealing his obvious disappointment; there was no gain for him in letting her know just how much of a hold she had over him. "So this may be the last time we see each other for awhile?"  
  
"No." Her denial was so fierce it managed to take him by surprise and startle him into glancing at her. "I'll leave a trail like I did last time, I won't be hard to find." So, she had left those traces on purpose, not out of carelessness; all this time, she had been meticulously setting them up, reeling him and the rest of organization slowly to the point where she wanted them. "So it may be four days, a week at the most before we can meet up again." She caught his hand and squeezed his fingers between her own. "No matter what, you'll never lose me." With that hanging between them, there was no room for any more inadequate words, only a fervent meeting of lips that filled in what they could never say.   
  
It could have been his first kiss, that's how deeply it was ingrained on his memory: the exact shape and taste of her mouth, the heavenly feel of the red silk of her dress and the even more heavenly feel of the skin he discovered, the welcome weight of her arm wrapped around his neck, the way his breath burned in his lungs, and the way the air swirled between them when they finally inched apart.   
  
She released the rest of him from her grip and backed away, leaving him adrift in a universe that suddenly seemed utterly dark and bleak.  
  
"Soon," she whispered in farewell, and turned her back on him like he was any other stranger as she disappeared in the throng.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
They weren't men used to not completing a job--the CIA wouldn't recruit any other kind--and that didn't make it any easier, staring around at the crestfallen faces of his fellow agents, their heads hanging low over their knees, as the van jolted them back to the hotel, knowing it was all his fault.  
  
Weiss clapped him reassuringly on the back, hiding his own frustration in a valiant show. "S'okay, Mike. We learn from our failures, right? And I don't know about you, but I rarely make the same mistake twice. Except that one girl, whatshername, Tiffany. But we won't mention that." It was only with that attention that he realized he must appear just as bad as the rest of them, but not for the same reason; not even his conscience or doubts about a woman trained to deceive could bother him in the state he was in.  
  
He was simply tired. He had barely slept in weeks, but he knew that for the first time that over the course of that night there would be no nightmares since the source of those dreams was at last safe, and he had the means of keeping her that way. With that promise, drowsiness dropped around him like a heavy blanket, cutting him off from the misery around him.  
  
He trudged up to his room, discarding his shoes along the way, and shed his jacket and pants, leaving him only in his boxers and dress shirt. He stared frowningly down at the stiff, immovable buttons, and burrowed under the covers as he was, starched shirt and all.  
  
Weiss settled fully clothed on his bed, switching the bedside light on as he yanked his laptop out of its case. He had a long night ahead of him, drawing up the reports on the unsuccessful events of the evening for base ops.  
  
And that was the last image Vaughn saw as his eyelids closed over his view: Weiss pausing in the fury of his typing to land his gaze on his friend. And the last sound he heard before he plunged over the edge of oblivion was Weiss's murmured, "Poor son of a bitch." 


	8. Time

A/N: Sorry I'm a little late with the update, but I was working on a piece for the Cover Me April challenge. It's an Irina fic, and I think it turned out okay :) so if you like the way I write and want to go see it, it's called Genesis and you can find it in the Cover Me archives or, preferably, on ff.net at so you can leave me some comments. Enjoy the new chapter and, hopefully, Genesis too!  
  
Chapter Eight  
Time  
  
* Just like me you got needs  
And they're only a whisper away  
And we softly surrender   
To these lives that we've tendered away  
  
But I would not sleep in this bed of lies  
So toss me out and turn in  
And they'll be no rest for these tried eyes  
I'm marking it down to learning  
I am *   
--Bed of Lies, Matchbox Twenty  
  
It was four agonizing days, eight endless hours, and twenty-nine restless minutes before they found the first traces of Sydney's trail; five unbearable days, two excruciating hours, and forty-eight intolerable minutes when they landed in Berlin; six insufferable days, fourteen impatient hours, and seven bleak minutes when he found himself alone in a bar, staring the through the inch or two of liquid into the bottom of his glass, once again at the end of his leads and no sight of Sydney in almost a week.  
  
"Excuse me," a voice dipping into an almost over-exaggerated Southern United States accent interrupted his stupor with sugarcoated vocals. "I couldn't help overhearing you speaking to the bartender and by your pronunciation--well, it's always nice to meet a fellow American when you're out of the country."  
  
He gestured vaguely to the vacant stool next to him. "I'd be honored."  
  
She alighted with nimble poise on the seat and rested her chin in her hand as she leaned on the counter, her face drawing in close to his with blatant forwardness. "If you don't mind my sayin', honey," she stated, not caring at all if he minded or not, "You look blue."  
  
He hunted below the fringes of blond bangs until he finally encountered a pair of alluring brown eyes. "Do I?" he resisted with a sharp, self-mocking edge.  
  
"Yes. So, what's bothering you?" He opened his mouth to tell her it was nothing she needed to worry about, but she cut him off with a shake of her head. "No. Don't tell me. Let me guess: girl trouble?"  
  
He could feel the blood rising to his face, turning it a rich crimson hue. He focused his gaze on the surface of the bar, biting the inside of his cheek as he reminded himself that this wasn't Sydney he was speaking to, they were just two strangers meeting for the first time.  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"Tell me about it." She laid a hand that held no familiarity on his back, extending the most sympathy any human being can give another; she was too good at this game of pretending. One set of lashes descended in a slow, encouraging wink, "Comfort of strangers and all."  
  
He let another swallow of his drink soothe his throat, then set his glass aside with an audible click in the expectant silence.   
  
"There's this girl." He couldn't manage to tear his eyes away from the woodwork in front of him; in the light reflecting there he was building an image of the woman beside him with blue eyes, any color but brown. He knew if he only glanced up he would demolish the unknown person's likeness he was composing and make it impossible to say the things he's been meaning to, the things he could never bring himself to say to her face.  
  
"Mmm-hmm."  
  
"She's amazing; beautiful, intelligent, compassionate--amazing. But the problem was we worked together, company policy against interoffice dating and all that." He paused, searching for conformation that she understood what he was implying, and out of the corner of his eye he caught the bobbing of her hair in a curt nod to spur him on. "Things...happened, and we started a relationship anyway, and it was wonderful, perfect."  
  
"I think I see where this is heading..."  
  
"No, no, you probably don't. It's not your average love story; in some ways it was above all that petty drama. What actually took place was that she...took a position with another company...without telling me first. But not just a company--I could have handled her decision if it were any other company--but she chose the rival of the one I'm working at. So, now if we're seen together I could lose my job." Or life, or freedom. How many years in prison could they give him for aiding and abetting the enemy?  
  
"Well if you ask me, you should just give up. She's not worth all this trouble."  
  
Her nonchalant comment shocked him into a reaction, his head and shoulders jerking violently up to deliver a straight-on, bewildered stare, only to find her giving him her most seductive smile that promised she meant every word and none of it at all.   
  
"Do you want to go somewhere else? I know this cozy little place..."  
  
"You know what? I'd like that." He returned her smile unreservedly, at last ready to take part in her charade.  
  
He reached for his wallet as he was in the process of standing up, preparing to pick up the tab for his drink, but her gentle hand on his wrist arrested the motion. "This one's on me. One woman paying for another woman's sins."  
  
There were so many meanings to her words, and for a moment he got a flicker of Irina's face the way he had first seen her--the way she should have stayed--behind layers of glass. 'You look just like him.'  
  
"Thank you," he told her daughter in the present.  
  
She merely smiled, unaware of the image in his mind, and gathered up her purse as she led the way out. He only suspended his pursuit of her for a faltering footfall when they passed the darkest corner of the room; the sliding light as he moved revealed just a sliver of an eye and a cheek before recovering it again, but it was enough to stir his memory and waver his stride. His instinct would have made him to turn back and investigate, but her enticing hands were there on his arm, drawing him forward, and that was more than he could refuse.  
  
The entrance funneled them out into an alley, and their pace quicken some as they crossed the threshold in their haste to reach its darkest, most obscure end with out being seen. As soon as she was sure no one else was around, Sydney threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his ear, "I missed you."  
  
He defied his urge to hold her back for a minute, simply to prove to himself that he was capable of withstanding her hold over him, before he moved to envelop her waist, his other hand diving into the wig he wished he could pluck off. He dragged in a long breath, her scent filling his nostrils, as he prepared himself to use the careful words he had been choosing almost since he had last seen her.  
  
"We need to talk."  
  
She sagged within in his grasp. "We do, don't we?"  
  
The bar's door opened a square of artificial light in the dim surroundings, causing them both to freeze as they were, and emitted three patrons into the night, laughter spilling too easily from their throats.  
  
When the trio was far enough away, he leaned in to whisper, "Now that we've agreed...can we go someplace," he eyed the door suspiciously as it swung out again, "where we'd be less likely to be overheard?"  
  
They found the cheapest hotel they could purely for the undeniable fact that the least expenses are the hardest to trace. Somewhere along the way, though, he lost his resolution and his head lowered to hers, his lips tracing a line from her forehead, across her eyelids, and along her nose until he found her mouth.  
  
Her hands climbed to clamp around his shoulders, even as she pushed away, beaming impishly through the distant she had created at him, "What happened to talking?"  
  
He shook his head, luring her face back to his own with a forefinger placed under her chin. "There'll be time to talk in the morning; there's always too much time for talking."  
  
And then there was no reason to talk any longer.  
  
The door swung in under his touch, and the darkness in the room gave the impression of welcoming them in, the shadowy outline of the bed, the lamp stand, and the television all seeming to demand, 'What took you so long?'  
  
The truth was, he didn't know. 


	9. Sooner or Later

Chapter Nine  
Sooner or Later  
  
He woke up early just to watch her sleep.   
  
Her limbs twisted contentedly in the wreck of sheets, bathed in the golden warmth of dawn resolutely stealing into the room in spite of the heavy curtains drawn over the window, erased any enduring impressions from his awareness. She wasn't his enemy or his ally, his friend or his lover; she was simply there, and that was all he could ask of someone such as her, unbound by the laws and the affiliations that governed the rest of humanity.   
  
He had lied the night before, though: there wasn't enough time, there was never enough time when it came to her.   
  
The impending questions and suspicions at the hands of Weiss drove him to action even as the first light of the day touched the tips of the fingers she had flung out into the space he had vacated, all the time he had promised draining away with every inch the sun gained on the morning. He was in the process of searching out pen and paper to write her a poignant note vowing that next time, maybe next time they would get around to that discussion, when she stirred, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow he had relinquished and drawing in a long breath as she passed into consciousness. She blinked once or twice as she regarded him, but there was no sign of sleepy confusion over her surroundings about her, only an easy acceptance.  
  
Her eyes shut again languidly and smile fluttered around the edges of her mouth. "Stay. Please. Stay all day, I'll show you around the city."  
  
He settled on the brink of the bed next to her, fidgeting with the ends of his jacket and staring at his feet on the floor. "You know I can't do that. I've got hell to pay as it is, how am I supposed to explain a whole day's disappearance?"  
  
"I don't care," she announced recklessly. "Tell them you got drunk, there was fight, and you got arrested for brawling, something like that."  
  
"But would they believe me?"  
  
She released a small, rough laugh. "Of course not. You, Agent Michael Vaughn, do anything imprudent? God forbid! But we'll have all day to think of a better excuse."  
  
"Sydney..."  
  
"I know." She opened her eyes with a weighty sigh and there was a rustle of scratchy fabric as she sat up beside him. "You have to go." Her arms draped his shoulders with an enjoyable burden and she hid her nose in curve of his neck. "I swear, Vaughn, when it's all over, we'll spend all day, all week together with nothing to interrupt us."  
  
"You keep saying that," he ventured a little defensively, but more mindfully of the reaction it was going to invoke in her, "'when it's all over.'"  
  
She withdrew so quickly that he could hear the air hissing to fill the space between them, and all he could see were her eyes darkening against him. "What do you mean by that?" Her words were so cold and calculated the walls seemed to shiver in their wake.  
  
He drew himself up in an instant response to the animosity, "You always say it will be over soon, but when is soon?"  
  
"These things take time, Vaughn." That last, single name had never cut so much before coming from her throat but he barely heard in his determination to demand the rest of the answers he'd been craving.  
  
"And what does happen when it's all over, Sydney? Did you think the CIA would welcome you back with open arms? Did you think you'd be forgiven, be a hero? No matter the reasons, you've done something inexcusable, they can't trust you, they'll lock you up! So where will you go from here Sydney, where do we go?"  
  
"I thought," she punched the statement fiercely, "that I would get away from this life, somewhere where no one would ever find me, where I'd be free of any obligations. I thought you would come with me."  
  
"You assumed that I'd come with you, but you never even asked me? What if I don't want to leave behind everything I've ever known for you? You may forget from time to time, but I did choose this life, this job for myself. And I like my illusions, the few of them I have left, my family, my friends, my security. It's not so simple for me to it give up as it was for you."  
  
"You said you loved me." Her voice was quiet, but the glinting wintriness of her glare was enough to push him with an almost physically force off the bed and back a few steps; still, he managed to hold her eyes with a chill of his own.  
  
"And you said you loved me."  
  
The silence stretched with a wretched, knife-like sting, and his knees almost buckled under the pressure of the hostility, causing him to retreat another couple staggering paces. His back hit the wall and he slid down it to the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest and turning his face away from the death-like grip their stares had been drawn into as he recognized what they were doing to themselves.   
  
"You remember the people in the park, don't you?" He spoke so softly, making so little impact in the buzzing of anger in the air, that Sydney actually leaned forward to hear. The laughter that was trying to spill out caught on his tongue, and he choked on it for a moment. "How could you forget? We envied them so much, their dogs and their families and their happiness, even their problems.   
  
"And that is what I've been searching for, what I've been clinging to since I realized a long time ago that I was going to have to live with the lies if I was really going to do what I promised my father I would. Those visits with my mom, Donovan...Alice, it was all a guard against the inevitable, a semblance of normalcy I've been building." He swallowed, reaching for the apology he'd been working up to. "Something like that, something you've assembled your whole life around in hopes it would come true, is hard to sacrifice on demand; it's hard to accept that you're never going to get your chance. To comprehend that it means nothing because I'd give it up to follow you as long as you'll let me."  
  
Her body fell into place next to his and she nestled her lips against his ear to whisper with an aching, tender passion exactly what he wanted to be told, "It's going to be our turn soon, Vaughn, we're going to be those people in the park. It's all going to be over soon."  
  
He slipped an arm around her and pressed her lovingly to him, like he could wipe away all of the distance between them, holding onto her just as tightly as he held onto her lies.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
He met Weiss's intent gaze only for an instant as he entered, then let his eyes skitter away across the rest of the room, dropping his key on the table and heading unswervingly for his bed. As soon as he had unfolded himself and straightened the pillow behind his head, he glanced up to find Weiss still looking steadily at him.  
  
Weiss closed his laptop and turned all the way around in the desk chair, something like disapproval underlying every move. "Wild night?"  
  
"You could say that," Vaughn replied cautiously under hooded eyes.  
  
"Want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
Weiss's jaw clenched and a spasm of frustration crossed his features. "You have to stop doing this to yourself, Mike. Sydney's gone and nothing is going to change that."  
  
"I promise, Eric, Sydney is the last thing on my mind right now." And then he turned his head, already surrendering to sleep, and for a little while at least, his words were the truth.  
  
A/N: So you thought the angst was over now that Syd and Vaughn were happily back together? Let me warn you: it's only beginning. Wait until you find out what Sydney does next chapter... 


	10. The Call

Chapter Ten  
The Call  
  
He wasn't expecting the phone call when it came, especially not on his cell phone, but the incessant buzzing against his hip roused him in the middle of the afternoon two days later. He detached it from his belt, wondering why he had left it on at all, then tensed at the unknown number displayed on the screen; unknown numbers were never good news. He punched the button to answer it and brought the phone up to his ear in edgy, jumpy motions.   
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Vaughn." The sole word in that low, breathy voice told him instantly who was on the other end. "Vaughn, I need to see you now."  
  
He caught Weiss's quizzical stare from across the room, and he answered the unspoken question without any guilty hesitation as he muffled the receiver in his shirt, "Family crisis." He gestured roughly with his free hand, "I'm going to take this outside."  
  
Even when he was sure he was out of the range of any eavesdroppers, he kept his tone muted, "What are you thinking calling me on this phone? God knows it's probably still bugged!" The only response was a ragged sob, quickly suppressed, but it was enough to make him regret being so harsh. "Syd? Syd, what's wrong?"  
  
"Something's," the sentence was broken by a shuddering breath, "happened. I need to see you now. Just to--just to talk."  
  
"Now, as in right away?" He dodged a glance behind him, but there was nothing except shadows watching him.  
  
There was a barely audible sound from Sydney, like she was berating herself for demanding too much. "I'm sorry, Vaughn. I didn't mean that you...If you can't get away..."  
  
He shook his head in a swift refutation, but when he became aware that she couldn't see the movement, hastily added, "No, no. They won't even notice I'm gone. After that little withdrawal you made from the bank yesterday they're too busy searching for you to pay attention to anything I do. Truly remarkable work, Sydney."   
  
A tear-soaked laugh. "Thank you."  
  
"Just tell me where you are, and I'll be there before you know it."  
  
He met her in the alley by the bar from the other night; it was chancy to be seen in the same place twice, but the anguish in her voice left no time for him to search out the city for somewhere safe. She was waiting at the same uttermost end where he had held her not so long ago, huddled into the shade of her shapeless gray sweatshirt like its folds would shield her from any passing glances. She pushed her hood back when she noticed him, letting waves of brown hair fall lose in the creases of the tumbled fabric and revealing the angry red splotches on her face that the dimness cast by her clothing had hidden. She reached out manically, like one drowning catching onto a solid object, and pulled him forcibly toward her, burying her face in his collar; there was no sound from her, though, only the silent heave of her shoulders.  
  
"Syd." He trailed a hand up from the base of her spine to the point between her shoulder blades in a comforting motion he remembered his mother using on him when he was at his most inconsolable. "Syd, I can't help unless you tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Francie." It was more a hiccup than a name but it was enough to startle him.  
  
"Sydney, I meant to tell you, truly I did, but there was never the right time. Will and I--everyone--we all tried our hardest to find her, but everything was such a mess after you left, and she was just...just gone."  
  
She rubbed her nose against his chest in a feeble sign of contestation. "You don't understand. She's alive."  
  
Confusion swelled, and he tried to disengage her so that he could see her face, like that would give him some beginning of comprehension, but she refused to be moved. "She's alive? Isn't that a good thing?"  
  
"No, Vaughn, she's *alive*."  
  
With an appalling sensation, he recognized what she was saying, but the subject still remained hazy and unclear. "But how? When?"  
  
"I don't know." Her fingernails tightened treacherously close to his skin through the material of his shirt and he could sense her biting her lip near his throat. "I--I went out for a drive this morning, to get out of that place, get away from Sloane. That's when I saw them, fighting over one of the outside tables at this little restaurant. Sark and Francie.  
  
"I wanted to rip his throat for stealing my friend. But I kept driving because there was nothing I could do at that moment...and I kept thinking, and the more I thought, the more apparent it became that she was there of her own free will. That she could be a double agent. Everything about her proved she wasn't afraid of him, she wasn't struggling or searching for help, she didn't even have that blank look that some people get after shock or brainwashing. If you could have seen her, Vaughn--the way she moved, the way her face looked as they were arguing--I don't know who she is, but she's not Francie."  
  
He gradually became conscious of an expanding damp patch over his heart, like a leak had sprung somewhere.  
  
"And...and I don't know what's going on anymore, Vaughn." Her voice hysterically crested through a throat closed with tears and grief, like she was somewhere faraway and was worried her words wouldn't reach him. "What's happening to my life?"  
  
There was nothing left to do but hold her as the barricade came sliding down, nothing left to say that she had not told herself, nothing that could stamp out the horror plaguing her. Later, maybe he'll decide on the information the CIA, what he'll tell and what he'll withhold. But for now there's only her need.  
  
And it was in the quiet between her upheavals that he first heard that damning sound.  
  
A footstep. A second. A third. The clink of gravel hitting the wall.  
  
Over her head, he set eyes on the faces of the two men he would have wished anywhere else, watching as their shoulders swelled to fill his only escape. He was trapped.   
  
It had all been a trap to lure him here, he can see that now.  
  
His arm dropped away abruptly, leaving her uncovered, but there was no surprise about her as she purposefully turned to confront the recent arrivals, one hand dashing away the last trace of any tears on her cheeks.  
  
"Oh, Syd," he whispered so only she could hear. Even as he felt her betrayal razing into his core, he couldn't help but touch her, one hand caressing her hair with the knowledge he may never touch her again. "You really had me this time, Sydney."  
  
There was the dimmest, most fleeting blaze of some emotion in her eyes, then his saving grace fled, and then there was nothing in her expression. Cold, blank nothing, like running into a brick wall. He had never felt so alone in his life.  
  
Unaided, he could have possibly taken out Sloane by himself, but with Sark at his side, the outcome was much more doubtful; Sark had more than once proved himself Vaughn's equal, and without certainty of where Sydney's loyalties lay, he had no hope of breaking out of the alley in any condition at all.  
  
Sloane thrust out the gun they all knew he had been carrying, jerking it meaningfully in Vaughn's direction, "Give him up, Sydney. Your little game has come to an end."  
  
She extended her hands in the open air, palms up, as if to show she had no claim on him. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."  
  
A/N: Sydney has a lot of explaining to do in the next chapter, doesn't she? (Just like JJ will have to do some explaining next season...) For now, you'll just have to guess at her motivations and her allegiances... 


	11. Stars

Chapter Eleven  
  
Stars  
  
He didn't know where he was. They had blindfolded him as soon as he got into the car, and he had not struggled; there was no gain in fighting back, he needed to be in his best condition if he had any prospect of surviving this situation. The only time he had resisted was when the car had finally stopped, when he had recognized his last point of escape and the dread had bubbled up inside him to the juncture of erupting. He had lashed out sightlessly, his foot connecting solidly with yielding flesh, and he dove in the direction he sensed the door to be. Sark had quickly subdued his rampage, though, with a single, affective blow to the head. Sydney never raised a hand to help him.  
  
Now, slitting open his eyes with a painful effort as he emerged from the abyss of unconsciousness, he knew only what he saw: four rough gray walls, a formidable steel door, a dirty floor whose focal point was a drain in its center, something almost like a modified version of a dentist's chair beneath him, and restraints on his wrists and ankles.  
  
And Sloane. Seated in a metal folding chair in front of him, leaning forward with his hands tucked long-sufferingly between his knees and his gaze pinning him as if he might vanish if he blinked. He shifted as he saw his most recent prize awake, settling against the back of his chair with a satisfied smirk as if he himself had brought about the event. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Vaughn."   
  
Sloane was not remotely frustrated by the lack of answer he got from his uncompromising victim; in fact, it would make the experience all the more agreeable. The ones who resisted the most were always the most amusing to break.  
  
"I'm sorry," he continued like he didn't notice the one-sided nature of the conversation, "to have interrupted you earlier, but this has gone on longer than I thought it would. You see, no matter how much I love Sydney, I can no longer trust her, and you have been a source of dissension between us before. I let her have her fun, but the time has come for it to end. Besides, I have a more imperative need for you here."  
  
It took Vaughn's eyes only a split second to dart apprehensively to the tray of instruments by his side and resolutely back to Sloane's face, but the older man still caught the course of his thoughts and his smile broadened. "You don't have to worry about those, you won't have to say a word if you don't want to. I need you whole for what I intend. You, Mr. Vaughn, are to be my hostage. From what I understand, you have been privy to valuable information, and the CIA cannot afford to leave you in hands such as mine long enough for you to talk, even if the only other option is to kill you. Thankfully, there is a team of nine agents in the area available to come to your rescue, and walk right into my trap. Nine agents in one swoop. All the information or bargaining tools I'll ever require. And it's all thanks to you."  
  
Abruptly, all of the defiance flowed out of him, even though the sudden loss wasn't revealed on the face he showed the world. Vaughn couldn't breath, couldn't have moved if he had been able to; his vision was filling up with stars, nine stars on the wall, and he knew every name.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The young agent scrambled to her feet as she caught a glimpse of Kendall approaching, nearly knocking her chair over in her rush. She dug through the numerous piles of papers on her desk until she finally recovered the right ones, panting a little after the panicked hunt, just in time to hand to Kendall as he pulled up next to her. He accepted them with an impatient nod, and underneath she seethed some that she was not even graced with a 'thank you.'  
  
She watched him skim the words with his usual static, uninterested expression, nothing giving away the emotion she had expected to be forthcoming, and she suspected that he might not appreciate the importance of the document she had given him. She leaned forward and spoke up helpfully, "It's the latest report from Agent Weiss. It appears that Vaughn has been missing for nearly seventy-two hours now."  
  
Kendall favored her with a dismissive glance only long enough to snap, "I do know how to read" before returning to his absorbed study. Still, instead of recognizing the thinly disguised dismissal and returning to her work, she loitered by his side, rocking nervously back and forth on her heels.   
  
This time he turned the full strength of his glare on the already daunted woman, "Is that all, Patterson?"  
  
She shook her head in a negative, her short-cropped brown curls bouncing on her forehead, and squeaked through the block in her throat, "N-no, sir. Actually, there is something else."   
  
Her hesitation in admitting to the second part of delivery wasn't entirely due to her fear of her superior or the fear of disappointing him, but more to the fact that she was loath to be the bearer of bad news against one her colleagues. She had seen Vaughn and his agent once or twice in her short time with agency, but what she had seen made a striking impression on her, giving them the status of almost instant heroes to her; young and intelligent and well positioned within the hierarchy of the department, while nevertheless retaining the least possible hint of rebellious air that made them alluring, they were everything she aspired to become. And even after the incident in Mexico City she had hung on to a wisp of hope that it was only some elaborate plan for the good of them all, but now, with the evidence she possessed, it was all too apparent that the downfall of not one but both of her idols was imminent, and it was devastating to be a powerless witness in it all.  
  
Slowly, reluctantly she reached behind her, blindly searching for the object she required. Her fingers brushed against it, then brought the heavy, significant-looking parcel up for Kendall's inspection. His eyebrows drawing together and wrinkles forming, her took it from her, quickly adjusting his grip to the unexpected weight. Juggling it in one hand, he judged it for a moment before a gradual revelation came over him, the truth at last revealing itself to him. Shocked, he looked up and met her gaze, as if to ask if this was really happening, tragedy and gloom simmering between the two spectators to this adversity.  
  
"What has he gotten himself into this time?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Soft, gentle hands framed his face, and he opened his eyes, forgetting for a moment where he was. Sydney mustered a half-heated smile as she pressed a glass to his lips with a soothingly murmured, "Drink." He swallowed the mouthful he managed only because he was thirsty, curbing the urge he had to spit the water back in her face. When he finished what she had brought, she wiped up that which had escaped, and on sudden inspiration undid the straps at his wrists, which he wiggled feebly. With nothing left to do, she sat back dejectedly and dropped her eyes, no longer able to pretend she was oblivious to the looks he was sending her.  
  
"You're wondering how I was allowed in here with you," she began bluntly. "Wondering why I did what I did. The first is easy to explain: Sloane and Sark have gone to handle some their accounts and left me under the supervision of my mother. It's probably some sort of test, to see if you're still here when they come back, to see if they can rely on me. The second...well, I don't expect forgiveness. Sloane found out that I was secretly meeting with you, and--and I just couldn't give it up, give you up. So I lied and said I was using you to get CIA intel like," she paused, shame and old anger both stirring at the same time, "like my mother did to my father.   
  
"I should have been more careful, when I made that phone call--Vaughn, I wasn't thinking anymore. It didn't even cross my mind that he would trace it, that he would follow me. And when he showed up in the alley...if there had been any other choice I would have taken it, but if we had fought back, if we had somehow escaped alive, where would we have gone? You were right; the CIA doesn't want me back. And the Rambaldi only days from being finished, all this would have been for nothing, and he would have gotten away with it again. I can't even imagine the consequences, the repercussions this it would have had this time..."  
  
She shuddered, wrapped in her apocalyptic vision, before drawing herself up straight. She laid a reassuring hand on his arm, adding pressure with her fingertips as she tried to convey comfort she certainly did not feel, "I did the best I could for us, and I swear to you that nothing's going to happen to you, we'll get out of this one piece. Only a few more days, just hold out a little longer..." And then as she had said so many times before, though there seemed to be less conviction in her waning voice, "It'll all be over soon. Soon."  
  
He enveloped her hand weakly with his, squeezing it more to restore her fraying confidence, than because he believed her words; oh, he wanted to believe, but he had no leap of faith to give her, no hope to put in her. He was hollowed out, empty, with nothing left to give, not even forgiveness.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
He was shaken out of his troubled sleep by the sound of the door swinging open, moaning on its hinges. He blinked fuzzily at the feminine figure silhouetted in the sudden barrage of light, and as she stepped forward, closing the entrance behind her, he could tell by her walk that whoever it was, it was not Sydney. Her heels clicked on the uneven surface of the floor, announcing out every stride in excruciatingly thunderous tones, and her face swam into his field of vision in the swinging circle of light produced by the lamp he had been graciously left to battle off the darkness. The face of his father's killer swam into view.  
  
Irina Derevko smiled. "Hello, Michael."  
  
Coming in the next chapter (yes, another teaser, because I like to keep you in suspense): What does Irina really want? What happens when Weiss and the others show up? And what last, desperate move will Vaughn resort to? 


	12. Bait

A/N: The end of the school year is approaching, which means, inevitably, finals are here as well. What I'm getting at is that I just want to warn you that you may or may not get your update next weekend depending on how much studying I do. On a happier note, today happens to be your author's birthday! So, don't go out and buy me anything expensive, but a few nice reviews would be wonderful...and I know you'll want to leave me some words after you see how I end this chapter ;)  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
Bait  
  
Irina reached out across his line of vision for the metal folding chair Sloane had left behind; it unfolded under her touch, and she dragged it in front of him, fully opened, across the grainy, uneven floor, the metal grating and whining and protesting the whole way with the same effect as nails on a chalkboard. As she bent into the curves of the chair, her eyes never left his face in that unnerving way they had of boring into him, through him.  
  
"You broke your promise to me." No preamble or salutations. Irina rarely expended the energy it took to be anything but direct.  
  
In the way they always did, his gaze glanced off her face and skittered to the side, to the ground; it was easier to speak to her, to keep his reasoning unruffled, if he didn't look directly at her. It was like staring straight into the sun, it did more harm than good. "You still got what you wanted, didn't you? The Rambaldi, Sydney."  
  
"It's the principle of the thing, that you would have had all the information you needed and left me with nothing in return."   
  
"And you've never broken a promise to anyone?" A sharp, humorless laugh accompanied the statement.  
  
"Don't attempt to lecture me on my morality. I know very well where I stand. But in my defense, I have kept one promise over the years."  
  
"Oh, really. And what was that?" He was bitter, mocking, but his heart beat a little more erratically, knowing what was coming next.   
  
"I made a promise a long time ago to a man--a man who looked a lot like you. He begged--begged--for his family's life, for his son; they always do, assuming with their selfish notions that I have the time to track down everyone around them. But something about him...struck me, in all his earnestness and integrity, so I promised him I would never lay a hand on his son. Now, I am beginning to think that maybe I should not have been so true to my word."  
  
The air filled, shifted with her wistful sigh. "It must be wonderful, to have someone care that much about you."  
  
"I wouldn't know. He died when I was so young."  
  
"You know that's not what we're discussing anymore," came the sharp reprimand.  
  
Yes, he knew. He had sensed the swing in the conversation, the abrupt switch in subject that Irina used to throw people off their guards, but she had crossed into territory he was reluctant to traverse. "I guess it is wonderful," he relented evasively.  
  
She seized on his answer, "Then tell me why you're still here, tell me why Sydney is still waiting to finish Sloane. Why hasn't she taken you away yet?"  
  
He turned his head, unable to manufacture a cutting response, as she imitated the questions that had been haunting him.   
  
"Nothing to say? Well, why don't we play game, then," her voice taunted him.  
  
"I'm tired of games, especially yours."  
  
"It's not hard to play. All you have to do is sit very still and be quiet. Do you think you can do that for me, Michael?" Her unprecedented abuse of his first name sent abhorrence through him, the way she used it reducing him to a small child.  
  
The door wailed as it opened, and he wrenched his head upwards to stare at the new visitor, but Irina never moved, never reacted, something akin to a smile shaping her lips.  
  
"Mom, what are you doing?"  
  
She didn't turn, didn't lift her eyes from him. "I had expected you sooner, Sydney."  
  
"What are you doing?" Sydney repeated, her voice rising to a frantic keen.  
  
"How much are you willing to give up, Sydney? How much would you give up for him?" She waved one set of neatly manicured fingernails dismissively at him.  
  
An uncertain silence, Irina waited; she could be patient. "Ev-everything."  
  
"Everything? What about this mission? Your opportunity to destroy the Rambaldi device? Your chance at Sloane...or me?"  
  
Sydney's eyes swiveled anxiously between Vaughn and her mother. A little more firmly, "Everything."  
  
Deftly, before either of the other two in the room realized what was happening, Irina produced a small, dark object and launched it in Sydney's direction. Her daughter caught it instinctively, then brought it up so she could inspect it. A cell phone.  
  
"Go ahead," Irina urged. "Call Agent Weiss. Tell him where you are."  
  
Sydney looked to Vaughn, but he shook his head mutely; he could not make the decision for her, unaware as he was of the happenings outside of his small cell of a room. Only Sydney knew what was best.  
  
She dialed. It seemed every ear in the room strained to hear as the phone rang...and rang...and... "Weiss? It's me." There was an exclamation from the other end that was audible even to Vaughn, as far away as he was, and Sydney winced, holding the receiver away from her face. "No, don't. Just listen very carefully. I'm only going to say this once..." She rattled off an address, and quickly snapped the cover shut before she had to confront any reaction from Weiss, any discomforting questions.  
  
Sydney compressed her lips, and turned to Irina, perhaps looking for a grand revelation as to her motives, but she was greeted with a beatific smile as Irina ascended to her feet. The older woman bowed to the task of removing Vaughn's restraints, and in the same instant he was freed, a gun was shoved into his face. He gaped at it, his mouth half-open, a tremor barreling its way through his abdomen.  
  
"Here." Her voice was gentle, but he sensed that underneath she was laughing at him, the echoes of her mirth shining in her eyes. She pressed the metal even more adamantly at him, and he took it in shaky fingers. "You're going to need that." She straightened, running her hands over her suit in a nervous motion she seemed unable to control. "Now, I need to be gone by the time the CIA gets here." She swung around, bearing down on Sydney. "And you should be too. Go, finish what you meant to do. And if you can't," she shrugged, "the CIA will be here in a matter of time to do it for you."  
  
If she was expecting an answer, there was naught except the hush that rushed up to fill the space after her words; there was nothing left for her to do but gather herself up and start for the door. Yet even as she passed by Sydney, her daughter's hand snaked out to fasten onto her elbow. Irina examined the stern grip, then raised her eyes to encounter a pair that were extraordinarily similar, their gazes catching, and Vaughn suddenly felt as if he were intruding on a moment years in the making.  
  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
"Nothing." Irina shook her head as if to emphasize the point. "Nothing you haven't already done."   
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"You don't need to. Sometimes you just have to trust." Irina lowered her voice even more, the lilt to her tone becoming so alien for a time that it could have been another person entirely. "Take care of yourself. I love you, Sydney. Even when you don't believe it." She shook off Sydney's grasp effortlessly, and Sydney let her, her hands dropping limply to her sides.  
  
And in the span of a breath, Irina was gone.  
  
There was no time for a reunion between Sydney and Vaughn, no time to share their burning questions; they could both feel the looming presence drawing closer, the clock running down as they devised a plan. Sydney would go directly for Sloane where he had been wrapped up in his workroom for several hours, confine him or kill him, whatever was necessary, and destroy the Rambaldi device by any means open to her. Vaughn would distract Weiss and the other agents, stall them until Sydney was gone too far for them to ever catch. He would return to the States with them, go back to his life as it had been, until the two could meet up again weeks, months, maybe even a year from then, whenever they could. Then, then would it truly be over.  
  
She ended up in his arms as he assured her once again that he understood what they were doing. She tilted her chin back, giving an impression that she was looking across a larger gap than the one inch that separated them, her expression darkening with her seriousness. "Don't make me come after you." The warning was laced with desperate humor, but that was only a mask for her real somberness.  
  
"You don't have to worry about that." His words failed to ease the apprehension etched into her mind, so he tried again, this time sweeping her lips with his; it was an ancient kiss, centuries old, the kind given by a warrior going off to war, firm and so sweet it all but brought you to tears, and so, so unavoidably final.  
  
She slipped away and led the way up the stairs, so that she would emerge first to confront anyone that might challenge them. It was because they had arranged themselves that way that she didn't see his legs falter for a moment beneath him, dissenting and dangerously weak after days of nonuse. He grimly clutched the railing, glancing up to make sure Sydney had not noticed, and prayed he would only have to employ his legs to stand his ground.  
  
As they came out into the kitchen of the house--for he could now see it was house that he had been held in, a huge and terribly modern one, probably built by some American millionaire who had craved an overseas home, which had been promptly abandoned and sold to Sloane--the two exchanged one last murmur of farewell and good luck as Sydney took the next flight of stairs upwards and he settled himself into a position where he could see both doors the agents could possibly enter through.  
  
He didn't have to wait long; there was the sound of tires screeching on the driveway, brakes squealing, the open and slam of multiple doors, and only a moment's pause before the front door burst in. As the nine men fanned out in the wood-paneled entrance, Vaughn slid out of his obscured nook, putting the stagger of a lost man into his step as he approached, almost as if he barely knew where he was. There was the distinctive noise of air and metal brushing against each other as came into view, but Weiss raised a commanding hand and after a moment of indecisive hesitation the weapons dropped away to hang inertly albeit threateningly at the agents's sides. "Mike." The tone was warm.  
  
His first genuine smile bloomed. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."  
  
Weiss made a hasty gesture. "We don't have time for that. Just tell me where she is."  
  
He widened his eyes, trying his best to look bewildered. "Who? What are talking about?"  
  
"Sydney. Tell me where she is."  
  
"Sydney? Sydney's here?"  
  
"Don't give me that bullshit. You know exactly where she is."  
  
"I swear I have no idea." He held his hands out in front of his body, mollifying, his eyes on the guns behind his friend, for the first time realizing the peril he was in from his own people. "I haven't seen Sydney. The only person I've seen in days is Sloane. I really thought that this was it, that I was going to die here--"  
  
"Stop. Stop lying. I know what you've been doing, that you've been seeing her. They have the tapes, Mike, base ops has the tapes; the party, the bar, the hotel...they're all there. And every one shows you and Sydney together."  
  
Weiss was never good at bluffing, and to know all that information, every place they had been together, it was impossible that he could have guessed all that. One hand crept to his waistband, waiting there. "How did you know? How did you know to follow me, where I'd been?"  
  
Weiss levered a look at him that was disapproving, like had expected him to have figured it out by now. "Don't you see it yet? Why Kendall relented so easily to you coming along? Surely it wasn't because he trusted you. He knew the girl couldn't resist you. She's proved more than once that she can't leave you behind. You were bait, Mike. Bait. A worm on a hook."  
  
Just as simply as that the pressure was gone, the two sides pulling on him were gone. The CIA's control on him snapped; they had used him without his consent, betrayed his trust and his loyalty, all his years of service meant nothing to them. There was only Sydney now.   
  
He drew the gun Irina had given him, taking in all nine agents in his aim, but even then Weiss held the men back from raising their own guns.   
  
"Put the gun down." Weiss's voice was calm, soothing, coaxing, but Vaughn knew he was afraid. He had to be, no man faced death without the least twitch of doubt. "You don't need it. No one here is going to hurt you." He waved a hand behind him to encompass all of them. "Put it down and take us to Sydney, and I promise it'll be alright again. I'll clear your record, like it never happened. All it takes is one word from you, but I can only give you is this one chance. You have to decide right now. Think of it, we can go home and all this mess will be gone, over."  
  
Nine agents against one man; he could never hold them off, not as long as Sydney needed him to. It would be so effortless to give into that voice, but there was only Sydney now and she needed him to create a diversion. As long as the Rambaldi was destroyed, as long as Sydney escaped, it didn't matter if he ever left this spot; she was all he had left to cling to in the world, not even his best friend who had never said a word of how they were using him, and nothing, nothing was worth giving her over to her doom.   
  
He could create a diversion they would be unable to ignore.  
  
He switched his grip on the gun, lifting it up to lightly press against his temple.   
  
"That's just it. It's never over, it never ends." He closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of air flowing in and out of his lungs, the quickening of his pulse throbbing below his ear, knowing that it would not last much longer. He tightened his finger on the trigger, preparing himself in his last few seconds. He was so immersed in the remaining span of his life, it never pierced his awareness that someone was screaming his name, one single syllable, over and over...  
  
* Hold on to me love  
  
You know I can't stay long  
  
All I wanted to say was I love you and I'm not afraid  
  
Can you hear me?  
  
Can you feel me in your arms?  
  
Holding my last breath  
  
Safe inside myself  
  
Are all my thoughts of you  
  
Sweet raptured light  
  
It ends here tonight *  
  
--My Last Breath, Evanescence  
  
TBC... 


	13. Salvation

Chapter Thirteen  
  
Salvation  
  
A body collided with his, carefully though, twisting his loose grip up and away so that if the gun misfired it would hit the ceiling--regardless of what would happen if the bullet ricocheted...But he didn't provide them a chance to see what would happen then, easily relinquishing his hold on the trigger; he didn't know how much ammo Irina had loaded into the weapon, and every bullet was precious, even if he only needed one. He fought back against his assailant, a sudden, violent, resentment flooding into his nerves. He had been so close, so close to victory, to being free, and in the final moment he had been robbed of his liberation. His resistance barely endured a few seconds though, as he realized that his attacks were only being blocked, that his opponent was being extremely heedful not to harm him. None of the agents would have afforded him such a courtesy, not even Weiss in the agitated mood that possessed him would have been that conscientious.  
  
He stopped and opened his eyes.   
  
He ended with his back to the nine men, acting as a sort of human shield for Sydney against their fire. Delicately, she pried the gun from his numb fingers, holding it away from her with her fingertips like someone who had never before touched a gun, instead of the expert she was, regarding it as if it was the most despicable object she had ever beheld. A brutal shiver usurped his own control of his muscles, his mind finally comprehending in her wide, liquid brown eyes what he had been so eager to do not a minute before. How could he ever have been ready to give this up? The radiance in her eyes, the texture of her hair, the feel of her skin, the taste of her breath, the cadence of her voice, the butterflies in her touch...as long as there was some fragment of a chance, he could never forfeit that.  
  
"Is it all over?" he asked, pitching his voice so only she could hear.  
  
She averted her eyes, something she did when she was ashamed or uncomfortable. "Sloane is..." she trailed to a halt, her gaze clouding over. There was none of the relief or triumph about her that you would expect, or if it was there, it was in the most infinitesimal of amounts. When you spend a large part of your life respecting a man and the rest plotting his demise, it's hard to let go of that; all the energy and all the anger has to go somewhere when it's over, and more often than not it gets turned inward against yourself, and the purposelessness and aimlessness rise up to engulf you. The new life you've been dreaming of is never as wonderful as you think, especially when it still has the same trappings of pain as the old one.   
  
She let the statement lie, and tried to start again. "I was trying to destroy the Rambaldi device when I heard--I saw you..." She faltered once more, at a loss of words to describe what she had seen and what she had felt, and bit her lip in frustration. "I didn't finish the job, but I suppose that leaving the Rambaldi to the CIA is the lesser of two evils." Without warning, she flung her arms around his neck, and there was an answering ripple of alarm behind him at her sudden move. He tried to turn to face the ever-present threat, to place himself in front of her, but she refused to allow him to move. "What were you thinking?" she demanded vehemently. "Giving up--all that--for someone like me. Don't ever, ever scare me like that again."  
  
He stroked her hair with one hand, relishing the solidity of her aligned with his chest, unable to stifle the sigh that bubbled in his throat. Over his shoulder he could feel the impatience churning and growing, and he knew their window of time was closing. "I didn't have any better plans." He angled his chin so he could look her in the eye, "We're not getting out of this one, are we?"   
  
She started to shake her head in resignation, then broke off, peeling back from him as some design struck her. "I have an idea, but you have to promise to do exactly as I say, no arguing."  
  
"What do you need me to do?"  
  
"Promise first." That was never a good indication.  
  
"I'm not doing anything until you tell me--"  
  
"And I'm not saying anything until you promise."  
  
"--what you're--you're scheming--that is so bad that it requires a promise."  
  
"Vaughn--"  
  
"Sydney--"  
  
"You're wasting time."  
  
Damn her for being right. "Fine. I'll promise as long as you promise you'll get yourself out safely as well."  
  
The pause before she spoke told him all he needed to know: she was lying. But it no longer mattered; as long as he escaped unharmed, he could always come back for her, as long as one of them was out there, there was always a chance for the other.   
  
"If you promise not to question me and not to look back. Agreed?"  
  
"Agreed."  
  
She abandoned his embrace, letting her own arms drop away from him also so that nothing bound them together, nothing tangible at least. He could feel her mouth hovering above his cheek, her breath's warmth tickling his ear, burning one lone word into his flesh, "Run."   
  
He gathered his feet under him, and he ran. His heart hammered against his ribs, the air shuddered in his lungs, his muscles clamored in protest, and every jarring step transported him farther back into the nightmare of that one terrible year in high school he had spent on the track team. He had signed up because it was a no-cut sport and he had needed another activity that would look good on his college transcripts, but it quickly became a private battle: himself versus the pavement, every crushing impact of his foot on the track reverberating up his shin, quaking through his body, ringing and scornful in his head, laughing because regardless of how hard he tried he never seemed to get anywhere. It was one of the few things in his life he had failed to succeed in.  
  
Down the infinitely extensive hallway, across the treacherous kitchen floor...His feeble, treacherous legs collapsed underneath him, reducing him to his knees. With his palms pressed to the tile, his shoulders curled in on themselves awaiting the certain onslaught in his vulnerability, the shots raining down on him, the agony of metal piercing his skin, but it never came. Then he knew what Weiss had meant--"But I can only give you this one chance. You have to decide right now."--he hadn't meant to choose his loyalties, Weiss already knew those, he meant choose surrender or flight, admit defeat now or have a second chance tomorrow. The men were undoubtedly under orders not to fire on him under any circumstances, and Weiss would have hell to pay for that command when he returned home, but this was his final gift, one last offering from one friend to another to make amends for all the transgressions of the past.   
  
He had promised Sydney, but he couldn't help himself; he looked back. He knew he would never forget what he saw as long as lived, the image of that one shadow against so many others would be forever engrained in his memory. She had never looked so small or so helpless as that moment, her back straight and her head high as any conquered queen, her hands spread in supplication to those she has once called allies. He suppressed the compulsion to dash back and carry her off, comforting his conscious with the fact that he would be coming back for her soon enough. He climbed to his feet, forcing them back into motion, because he'd promised, he'd promised, he'd promised...  
  
The kitchen door slammed against the wall, but he barely noticed as he sprinted out onto the back lawn. A black SUV jolted over the end of the driveway and onto the grass, and he had to tumble back several steps to avoid being in its path. He almost smiled, watching the door swing open for him; it constantly seemed that whenever things were at their lowest, something would happen and the thinnest thread of salvation would present itself.  
  
Right then salvation was yelling, "Get in!"  
  
Once he was securely inside, he turned to Jack Bristow, his curiosity overriding his better judgment. "How did you know where to find me?"  
  
Jack didn't deign to answer, anything that could have been said was contained in his superior glare, telling Vaughn quite plainly without a word, "I have my ways." Jack had always and would always have his secrets and his lies, most of which he enjoyed hiding from the world, but despite all of the deceit retained by this one man, Vaughn trusted him completely.  
  
Jack guided the car across the back yard, and the neighbor's too, before rolling down the neighbor's driveway, slowing as he eased them on the street. The best place to conceal something was, after all, in plain view.  
  
As they passed the house he had been held in, Vaughn craned his neck around to see the melee spreading out of the towering front entrance, but only two of the ten there noticed the dark car passing by. Both Weiss and Sydney connected with his gaze, but Weiss slid his eyes the other way so, if asked, he could claim he had never seen him. Sydney smiled as their eyes melded, raising her shackled hands to her face, and pressing her palms to her lips, she blew him a kiss.  
  
Jack's hand, rigid and stern, placed itself between his shoulders, forcing him forward in his seat. "The trick," he said, his voice matching his hands, "is to never look back. It's harder to leave when you do."  
  
"Too late," he whispered, but Jack pretended not to hear. 


	14. Beautiful

**Author's Note**: I am extremely sorry to say that this will be the last chapter. I would have dragged this out as long as I could and written you some breathtaking action scene in which Vaughn rescues Sydney, but unfortunately I am completely inept at said scenes. So I decided to make them human instead of superheroes, and I hope you can accept this meager morsel as an adequate ending. If you don't like it...well, just pretend I wrote something wonderfully dashing and romantic and we can call it even, okay?  
  
As this is the last chapter, this is also my last chance to say thank you to all my reviewers who were moved enough to take the time to leave me a few encouraging words. A special dedication of this chapter goes out to neumy, who has been persistent and persistently flattering. In your generosity, you are a constant reminder of the reason I wrote this story--for the simple enjoyment of anyone who reads it. For your words, your encouragement, and your positive nature, I can never thank you enough. I am in the debt of all of you.  
  
-wolfish  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
Beautiful  
  
* All through the night I'll be watching over you  
  
All through the night I'll be standing over you  
  
And through bad dreams I'll be right there, baby  
  
Holding your hand, telling you everything is all right  
  
And when you cry I'll be right there  
  
Telling you you were never anything less than beautiful  
  
So don't you worry  
  
I'm your Angel standing by *  
  
--Angel Standing By, Jewel  
  
In those seconds that he had thought were his last, with the chilly barrel of the gun slowly thawing against the heat of his skin, one of those vague, half-realized images that had flashed through his mind was France. He had felt a nebulous, dull regret that he would never again have an occasion to see the beauty of the place he had once called home. Now, with the help of Jack Bristow and little bit of luck, he would spend the rest of his life there. He didn't interrogate Jack as to where he found the unremarkable farmhouse located advantageously in the middle of nowhere, or about the origin of the money placed in the bank account for him. He had a nagging suspicion that it had come from Irina's own private funds, and if it hadn't been absolutely vital to his survival, he wouldn't have touched any of it.  
  
They say that peace and quiet is good for the soul, but they never mention that it can be poisonous as well, when taken too much at a time. He had been there a mere three weeks, and already the humbling splendor of the open green fields had been transformed before his eyes into endless, empty nothingness. He missed Los Angeles, he missed his home, the unbroken cycle of life and the constant buzz and the incessant bustle. He had never felt alone in the city.  
  
He had fought when Jack had first told him that he had to stay there in France, that he couldn't aid in Sydney's rescue; he had reasoned and argued, screamed and raged, seethed and bristled, and come damn near to weeping, until Jack had finally and simply solved his dilemma by locking him in the house's small bedroom. The door now bore some notable dents from that one fateful day and night he'd spent trapped in there, but he had eventually come to his senses. He couldn't ever go back. He was too noticeable, too widely known; even if he could have changed his appearance, every mask has to come down sometime, and more than likely there would be someone there to see it fall and recognize him. He might have saved Sydney, or he might have jeopardized them both in the process. Jack, on the other hand, had somehow weathered the storm with his staunch reputation intact and unquestioned, and he had all the opportunity and all the possible resources he would ever need to do what Vaughn could not.  
  
Underneath, though, he knew that his disputation was only a token quarrel to cover an ugly emotion he refused to admit to. It was beyond his comprehension how he could love her unreservedly as he did and still hold something as terrible as a grudge, that he could ever wish her current lot on her, even for the shortest stretch of time. Yet something within him seemed unable to forsake that anger as he waded through a world filled with the echoing silence of the bare house; he was a man with no family or country, not even able to lay claim to his own name, and it was all because of her.  
  
He had become almost philosophical in the past few weeks. He had found an old bookshelf in the tiny, cramped basement filled with books by all the classical philosophers, and their words had occupied his time lately. He had started his foray into their works in hopes he'd stumble upon a phrase or two that might begin the unraveling of his complicated predicament, but it only led him farther and farther into the tangle. Perhaps he was just never meant to understand.  
  
That was how the afternoon found him as its lazy, warm tendrils inched across the stark wooden floor in the living room, seated in what he had quickly dubbed his favorite chair, a volume of Plato spread before him. He read the words aloud from time to time, as if his tongue could better find the meaning than his mind, but other than those brief intervals the only sounds to be heard were the rustle of his clothes as he shifted and the punctual ticking of the clock. He could almost sense understanding creeping up on him, manifesting itself fixedly in the back of his mind as a far-off pinpoint of light, gradually growing larger.  
  
The undeniable noises of a car approaching startled him out of his meditation, and the light blinked out. He slammed the book down on the coffee table, mumbling a few words under his breath that would have been obscene if they had been audible, and lurched irritably to his feet, moving forward to wrestle with the lock on the door. It was really a pointless defense; there were few people who would want to break into his house, and the few that did wouldn't be deterred by something as trivial as a lock. He strode out onto the porch, his bare feet curling contently on the warm surface, and he watched not so much patiently as resignedly while the car jutted and rocked over the gravel drive, coming to a halt a surprising distance away so that he couldn't see the passengers from where he stood.  
  
Irina Derevko, by the simple virtue of who she was and what she embodied, should have looked ridiculous and entirely out-of-place emerging from the old, broken-down Toyota, its silver coat long maimed by filth and age--but by some means she managed to still look completely in her element. That was, essentially, what a chameleon did.  
  
He left the door open and edged back a few steps to make utterly certain that she wouldn't brush him as she passed through the entrance. She covered the distance from the car to the house at a rate much more rapid than he had been expecting, and he barely felt as if he had enough time to catch his breath before she swept ahead of him. She gave the room a brief, cursory glance before taking up residence in the chair he had so recently occupied. He followed a few cautious, padding footsteps behind, leaving the door ajar in case he needed an abrupt exit, and perched uneasily on the stiff sofa across from her.  
  
She smiled graciously at him, as if she were the host of this unusual, impromptu meeting instead of him. "It took us longer than we thought it would." There was no doubt as to who that 'we' implied; she and Jack seemed to be irresistibly drawn back together, especially on matters that concerned their daughter. It was a strange, matchless relationship they shared, and it was inescapably a destructive one. Eventually one or both of them would be vanquished, they would shred apart the pride and the arrogance and the distance they both thrived on, until finally they crumbled, defenseless. Yet they continued their dance, aware or unaware of what they were doing to themselves, like children insisting they will be just fine playing in traffic.  
  
"It always does." She regarded him fleetingly, almost imperceptibly out of the corner of her eye, and he knew that he had given away something he should not have in those few words.  
  
She slanted her head back, slowly inhaling the rustic, pleasant fragrance that pervaded everything. "This will be a good place for her to recover. She needs quiet. Open spaces. Someone to take care of her for once." This time it was impossible to ignore the pointed look in his direction. "But despite our best efforts, there will be scars."  
  
"Scars?" He struggled to grasp the meaning behind her deceptively casual statement, knowing their must be one. "Scars? Is that what you're worried about? She already has so many, what difference will a few more make?"  
  
"Not all scars are physical, remember that. They can transcend the body." She offhandedly hefted the book he had left on the table, thumbing through the dog-eared pages, before depositing it back in its previous position. "Not even Plato can prove the existence of a soul, but if humans do possess such a thing, that is were her scars would lie.  
  
"She was held captive by her own people, those she once called friends. She was tortured for information she gave them readily. Her body, which has so long been her sole tool, was the very instrument they used against her. They used her against her. It has left marks that no one will ever see. She no longer trusts herself."  
  
"How? I mean, she's survived they same treatment so many times before--she was trained to--so why, why not this time?"  
  
  
  
"Everyone has a breaking point."  
  
Each ambiguous answer aggravated him more; he needed something solid to help him understand. "Will she ever be the same? No, no, not the same, never the same...but--okay again?"  
  
"What she needs now is someone to believe in her where she cannot, to show her she's not the monster they told her she was. She needs someone to tell her she's beautiful, and mean it.  
  
"You're angry." Irina had, as always, seen past his barriers straight to the heart of the issue. "You still haven't forgiven her what has happened to you. It is...understandable, but I suggest you find forgiveness for her soon."  
  
She appeared to have said everything she needed to, rising at her own leisurely pace from her seat and crossing the floor, and he trailed a careful couple of steps after her figure. When she delayed at the top of the steps to deliver her last message though, he didn't notice until he almost crashed into her, producing a distinct repulsion that picked up the hairs on his arms.  
  
"You need her more than she needs you. Don't forget that."  
  
With her warning imparted, Irina took her time as she picked her way back to the Toyota, moving around its bulk to open the passenger-side door. He saw her head materialize first, then the rest of her, blinking and slightly unsteady in the harsh light of midday. He tried not to notice how thin she was--barely flesh pulled over bones--or the way the sun appeared to shine straight through her pale, papery skin, or the angry red scoring that peered out from underneath her sleeve. He tried to concentrate on the spark, the life that still smoldered in the back of her eyes; that should have been all that mattered--not the scorching rage building in him against the people who had inflicted this on her.  
  
Sydney hesitated as she peered at her mother, but Irina took up the intimation and drew her daughter into a hug, murmuring some departing words in her ear. Releasing her after only an instant, Irina slid back behind the wheel of the car, and Sydney, clutching a small bundle of belongings to her chest, began the walk to where he stood, but Irina made no move to start the engine as they both observed Sydney's progression; she was waiting to see how he treated her daughter. He knew without a doubt that if he in any way failed in his new position as protector that Irina wouldn't think twice about snatching up Sydney and distributing her to someone who could care for her better than he. He would only have these first few minutes to prove himself.  
  
Love assumes countless forms, the majority of which are painful. Fierce tenderness awakened in him, spilling over into every corner of his being so that it seemed to press against his lungs, forcing all the air out in an effort to make room for itself. It compelled him to take the four steps down from the porch in one massive stride, to toss her bag hastily aside into the grass in an attempt to wholly absorb her in his embrace.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The apology rumbled up from what part of him he didn't know, nor did he have any idea what he was apologizing for, only that it was imperative that he did. Between his faintly uttered sweet nothings, his lips discovered the bridge of her nose, the corners of her eyes, the planes of her cheeks, the gratifying prize of her mouth. His fingers explored, marking all the places he would have to ask about later, the sites he would have to soothe and watch heal over the coming days. He tasted salt on his tongue, tears mingling with the kisses, his or hers it was no longer important.  
  
Sometime while he held her, the car drove away.  
  
When he came back into his senses, he forced himself to lift his head, then once that was done, to take a pace backwards to ensure he wouldn't give into the temptation, smiling all the while to assure her that his relocation was in no way caused by anything she had done. "Look at that," he accused lightly, jokingly, "you're already distracting me." He reached out and ensnared her fingers in his, holding them reverently, gently, as if she was liable to disintegrate at any second. "C'mon, there's something I want to show you."  
  
He led her around to the back of the house where there was a mid-sized square of rich, dark, freshly overturned soil. He had created it during those many idle hours he'd had of late, weeding and clearing the land in attempt to do something that would make the house seem more like a home, since that was what it would have to be.  
  
"I thought that you could--that you might want a garden."  
  
All the approval he would ever need was shining in her eyes; in them he could see all the flowers she would grow there--snapdragons, daylilies, morning glories, marigolds, roses, poppies, tulips--blooming year after year, expanding and growing, until finally they ran rampant because there was no one left to care for them anymore. A whole lifetime exploding in her eyes.  
  
"It's beautiful," she whispered because the tears were threatening to steal her voice.  
  
"You're beautiful." It didn't embarrass him to say those words, clichéd and sentimental as they might be, because he meant them.  
  
You could have almost missed the shadow that passed over her face or the flash of pain in her eyes, it went by so quickly, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. She didn't believe him.  
  
It was in that moment that he forgave her. Everything that he had given up, everything he had suffered to be here with her, she had given up, suffered just as much to have him here, maybe even more. Home, family, friends, reputation, security--all they had left of that now were this house, this garden, and each other. Somehow he was going to have to make what they had worth all they had given, but as he wrapped his arm around her, he couldn't think of any man who had ever been set with an easier task.  
  
It had taken him a while, but he had finally made up his mind: this double agent was worth all the trouble.  
  
END. 


End file.
